HILDEG 


7 


Old  Seaport  Towns  of 

New  England 


^ 


:t$m  Sfel^ "'' 


Old  Seaport  Towns 

of 

New  England 

By 
Hildegarde  Hawthorne 

Author  of  "  The  Lure  of  the  Garden,"  Etc., 

with  drawings  by 
John  Albert  Seaford 


1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  IMC. 


TO  MY  SISTER 
IMOGEN 


PREFACE 

HIS  informal  and  personal  account  of 
a  trip  through  a  group  of  towns  with 
whose  story  the  brave  beginnings  of  our 
history  are  linked,  seems  to  ask  for  a 
prefatory  word  because  of  this  very  informal- 
ity. The  book  is  more  in  the  nature  of  an  after- 
noon tea  chat  than  any  serious  presentment  of 
fact;  and  I  feel,  therefore,  like  establishing  at  the 
threshold  an  easy  and  friendly  note  with  such 
readers  as  may  decide  to  drop  in  and  share  with 
me  the  impressions  of  a  spring  outing  whose  key- 
note was  the  spirit  of  vacation. 

Here,  where  the  long  Pacific  roller  breaks  its 
majesty  on  the  shores  of  California,  I  look  back 
with  a  deep  feeling  of  affection  to  that  Atlantic 
coastline  where  my  forefathers  began  their  great 
American  job.  There  is  a  masculine  fibre  to  that 
rocky  and  winter-bitten  coast  lacking  on  this 
Western  shore — complemented,  rather,  by  a  softer 
a  feminine,  quality,  that  has  its  own  charm.  As 
for  beauty,  who  shall  say?  Beauty  is  everywHere, 
with  its  thousand  aspects.  Oddly  enough,  history 
reaches  Hack  in  Monterey  or  Santa  Barbara,  al- 


PREFACE 

most  as  far  as  in  Plymouth  or  Newburyport;  here, 
too,  old  houses  shame  the  present  with  their  more 
exquisite  sense  of  fitness  and  artistic  excellence, 
standing  serene,  lovely  evidences  of  a  finished 
story. 

Somewhere  Kipling  intimated  that  a  happy  state 
of  existence  would  be  his  who  might  contrive 
to  pursue  spring  on  her  flight  around  the  earth, 
living  everlastingly  in  that  divine  season.  I  feel 
sure,  were  that  possible,  that  nowhere  else  would 
spring  show  herself  more  adorable  than  in  her 
New  England  incarnation,  following  on  a  grim 
season  of  storm  and  biting  cold,  incredible,  save 
for  her  actual  presence,  a  shimmer  of  colour,  a 
wonder  of  fragrance,  a  creature  of  unbelievable 
light  and  youth  and  grace,  playing  over  the 
ancient  rock  and  hardy  vegetation  of  that  north- 
ern land. 

If  the  record  that  follows  serves  to  urge  some 
one  else  to  find  the  lilac  charm  of  Maine  or  Massa- 
chusetts as  it  was  found  by  my  sister  and  myself 
in  this  past  spring,  I  am  sure  of  at  least  one  heart- 
felt thank  you  for  a  book  it  has  been  a  pleasure 
to  write,  whatever  it  may  prove  to  read. 

HlLDEGARDE  HAWTHORNE. 
BALBOA,  CALIFORNIA, 
September,  1916. 


Vlll 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

I    PORTLAND 

II    PORTSMOUTH 

III  NEWBURYPORT 

IV  SALEM 

V  BEVERLY  AND  THE  ROCKY  COAST 

VI    GLOUCESTER 

VII    MARBLEHEAD 

VIII  PLYMOUTH  AND  NEW  BEDFORD  . 

IX    PROVINCETOWN 

X    NEWPORT 

XI    NEW  LONDON 

XII  NEW  HAVEN  . 


PAGE 
3 

33 
59 
91 
113 
133 
161 
189 
217 
241 
265 
289 


Illustrations 


CUSTOM  HOUSE  WHARF,  PORTLAND  Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

OLD  STRAWBERRY  BANK,  PORTSMOUTH      ....       36 
OLD  WAREHOUSE  AND  FERRY,  PORTSMOUTH  ...       50 

CLAM  SHACKS,  NEWBURYPORT 70 

CHESTNUT  STREET,  SALEM 98 

BEVERLY  BRIDGE,  SALEM  SIDE       .       .       .       .       .       .116 

BEVERLY  COVE 124 

GLOUCESTER  TOWERS  FROM  HARBOUR  COVE  .       .       .142 
OLD  MANSIONS  AND  ABBOTT  HALL,  MARBLEHEAD       .     166 

ORNE  STREET,  MARBLEHEAD 180 

"THE  WHALEMAN,"  NEW  BEDFORD 200 

OLD  WHARVES  AND  COLONIAL  TOWER,  PROVINCETOWN    220 
IN  THE  PORTUGUESE  QUARTERS,  PROVINCETOWN        .     232 

OLD  TRINITY  CHURCH,  NEWPORT 250 

A  BIT  OF  THE  WATER  FRONT,  NEW  LONDON  .       .       .272 
THE  WHITMAN  GATE,  YALE 300 


Portland 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 
OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

CHAPTER  I 
Portland 

HEN  the  two  of  us  decided  to  see  the 
seaport  towns  of  New  England,  with  as 
much  of  the  circumjacent  country  and 
sea  itself  as  possible,  or  that  part  of  it 
which  splashes  and  thunders  on  the  rocky  coast, 
we  made  each  other  one  solitary  promise.  I 
suppose  it  is  in  the  nature  of  human  beings  to 
bind  themselves  to  the  impossible,  to  declare  with 
splendid  confidence  that  they  will,  or  will  not, 
without  the  slightest  deference  to  the  tyranny  of 
the  flesh  and  the  clutch  of  circumstance.  We 
were  like  the  rest,  speaking  from  the  proud,  im- 
mortal spirit  in  us. 

"  Yes,"  we  declared.  "  We  won't  bind  ourselves 
to  any  set  scheme  or  schedule.  When  we  feel 
like  it  we'll  stay  and  when  we  don't  we'll  go. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

We  won't  have  a  rule  or  a  pledge — except  this. 
We'll  travel  light." 

I  was  particularly  firm  about  it.  "  There  isn't  a 
bit  of  use,"  I  told  Sister,  "  in  loading  ourselves 
down  with  a  lot  of  truck.  Two  rattan  suitcases 
that  we  can  carry  easily  ourselves.  Porters  are 
few  and  far  between  once  we  get  out  of  the  Grand 
Central.  And  maybe  we'll  want  to  trolley  from 
one  place  to  another.  If  we  need  more  than  we 
take  i  we  can  buy  it,  and  we  can  send  things 
home  by  parcel  post.  Eliminate,  that's  the 
word." 

"  Eliminate,"  echoed  Sister.  "  Fine.  No  tram- 
mels for  us,  eh?  " 

"  Not  a  trammel,"  I  agreed. 

Upon  that  thought  we  separated.  We  were  to 
meet  the  following  night,  and  take  the  train  direct 
to  Portland.  From  that  farthest  point  north  we 
were  to  idle  our  way  down  the  coast  according 
to  our  fancy. 

My  suitcase  was  rather  huge,  but  light;  I  found 
I  could  hold  it  out  at  arm's  length  suspended  from 
my  forefinger.  That,  of  course,  was  before  it  was 
packed.  It  was  a  pity  it  was  so  big,  but  there 
were  tapes  and  pockets  to  hold  things  firm,  so  they 
wouldn't  rattle  about  and  get  crushed. 

I  started  eliminating  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and 
by  twelve  I  had  decided  on  the  absolutely  neces- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

sary  things  that  must  be  taken.  They  were  rather 
bulky  in  appearance,  to  be  sure,  but  after  all  there 
was  room  enough,  and  summer  things  were  light 
and  fluffy.  .  .  . 

When  I  had  finished  putting  everything  into 
the  suitcase  that  it  could  be  induced  to  hold,  there 
were  still  a  pair  of  shoes,  a  book,  and  the  things 
I  wanted  for  the  sleeping  car  to  be  somehow  car- 
ried along. 

Luckily,  I  owned  a  small,  neat  bag  that  would 
just  hold  these  leftovers.  After  all,  it  would  be 
a  good  idea  to  check  the  suitcase  straight  through 
and  keep  the  bag  for  the  car.  Grand!  I  would 
carry  the  suitcase  right  down  now  and  have  it  out 
of  the  way. 

Grasping  the  handle,  I  started  to  pick  the  thing 
up  and  be  off  with  it.  It  resisted.  It  resisted 
with  such  force  that  presently  I  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt. It  evidently  preferred  to  stay  where  it 
was. 

A  janitor,  a  taxi,  and  a  porter  got  the  thing  to 
the  checking-room  for  me.  It  was  out  of  my  way 
till  we  reached  Portland,  and  I  rejoiced.  I  de- 
termined not  to  say  anything  about  it  to  Sister. 
Maybe,  after  all,  it  wasn't  so  heavy  as  I  had 
imagined. 

She  had  no  suitcase  with  her  when  we  met,  and 
explained  that  she  had  decided  it  was  better  to 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

check  it,  especially  as  she  had  what  she  needed 
for  the  sleeper  in  the  hand-bag  she  carried. 

"  The  thing's  rather  heavier  than  I  meant  it  to 
be,"  she  remarked,  carelessly,  as  we  bought  the 
latest  issues  of  the  evening  papers,  feeling  that  we 
should  know  nothing  about  the  war  or  the  politi- 
cal situation  until  we  got  back  to  town  again,  and 
wanting  to  feel  informed  up  to  the  last  minute. 
"  It's  funny  how  much  a  few  things  do  weigh, 
isn't  it?  " 

I  thought  of  an  answer,  but  didn't  go  any  fur- 
ther than  thought.  And  a  few  minutes  afterward 
we  pushed  our  way  down  the  long  green  avenue 
of  the  sleeper  to  our  section.  We  had  taken  a  sec- 
tion so  that  we  could  sit  comfortably  together, 
reading  and  talking  over  our  proposed  plans,  since 
the  train  left  before  nine.  But  the  porter  had  a 
different  idea,  with  the  result  that  I  climbed  up 
while  Sister  stayed  below.  We  might  as  well  have 
been  in  different  hemispheres  for  all  the  chance 
there  was  of  a  cosy  little  talk;  and  when  I  found 
my  berth  light  wouldn't  work,  I  decided  that  as 
we  had  to  be  up  early,  the  thing  to  do  now  was 
to  sleep. 

The  business  of  sleeping  in  a  sleeper  always 
interests  me.  I  sleep,  certainly!  But  it  is  such  a 
noisy,  adventurous  sleep,  a  sort  of  tumult  and 
shouting,  a  series  of  heroic  acts,  the  winning  of 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

forlorn  hopes.  When  it  merges  into  the  peace  of 
waking,  I  lie  awhile  in  astonishment,  listening  to 
the  departing  turmoil  of  the  magnificent  night 
before  it  quite  escapes  me. 

Sister  and  I  entered  the  wash  room  together, 
and  found  it  occupied  by  a  small  woman  who  gave 
us  a  baleful  glance.  We  found  that,  though  small, 
she  had  done  her  work  well.  A  dressing  case  was 
spread  open  on  the  solitary  chair.  A  large  bag 
took  up  most  of  the  floor  space.  From  the  hooks 
depended  a  variety  of  garments,  and  the  shelf  be- 
fore the  mirror  held  an  array  of  bottles  and  jars 
and  brushes.  Clearly  we  were  not  wanted.  Never- 
theless, we  stayed,  for  the  train  was  flashing  along 
through  Ogunquit,  Old  Orchard,  and  other  sum- 
mer haunts  that  warned  us  Portland  was  near  by. 

"  Nice  morning,  isn't  it?  "  remarked  my  sister, 
with  that  lack  of  originality  belonging  to  the  early 
hours  of  day. 

The  small  woman's  baleful  look  changed  to  a 
startled  expression.  Evidently  we  were  trying 
to  scrape  an  acquaintance,  based  on  this  forced — 
upon  her — encounter.  Flight  was  the  better  way. 
Sweeping  up  her  belongings,  she  left. 

"  It  isn't  done  in  New  England,"  I  said. 

"  I  see.  You  have  but  to  speak  to  be  alone. 
What  an  excellent  rule." 

The  vasty  spaces  of  the  restaurant  in  the  Union 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Station  at  Portland  showed  only  two  or  three 
spots  of  life,  for  we  were  well  in  advance  of  the 
season,  still  in  the  late  days  of  May.  The  strange 
sorrow  that  seems  to  hang  about  all  railway  eat- 
ing places  was  here  too.  The  depressed  waitresses 
moved  between  the  tables  with  measured  tread, 
and  one  of  them  took  our  order  with  an  expression 
that  indicated  her  unflattering  opinion  of  persons 
who,  on  the  verge  of  eternity,  as  we  all  were,  could 
order  eggs,  griddle  cakes,  and  coffee. 

We  ate  them,  and  found  them  good.  After 
which  happy  surprise,  we  went  out  to  get  our  suit- 
cases. 

The  baggage  man  swung  them  to  the  low  coun- 
ter with  a  splendid  nonchalance.  Before  taking 
them  away,  we  asked  if  we  could  get  a  carriage 
to  the  Falmouth. 

"  I  don't  know  as  there's  one  round  just  now. 
Why  don't  you  take  the  car?  It'll  put  you  right 
down  at  the  door." 

There  is  a  straight,  broad  path  leading  from 
the  station  between  stretches  of  lawn  to  the  car- 
track.  Rather  a  long  path,  I  thought.  But  we 
thanked  the  man  and  started. 

"  It's  heavier  than  I  thought,"  gasped  Sister, 
as  we  reached  the  car  track  and  allowed  our  grips 
to  sink  to  the  pavement  beside  us. 

And  right  there  began  our  delightful  experi- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ence  of  the  courtesy  of  the  New  England  car  con- 
ductor. Our  car  arrived,  the  conductor  jumped 
off,  took  both  those  terrible  suitcases,  placed  them 
in  the  car,  waited  for  us  to  adjust  ourselves  beside 
them,  and  we  were  off. 

A  glorious  morning,  with  great  white  clouds 
sailing  over  a  sky  that  fairly  quivered  with  radi- 
ance. And  an  air  that  smelt  like  that  which  must 
have  blown  across  the  vales  of  Arcady.  Later  we 
found  that  the  whole  of  New  England  was  en- 
gaged in  producing  the  most  gigantic  lilac  bushes 
we  had  ever  seen,  bushes  that  tossed  their  white 
and  purple  fronds  as  high  as  the  second  stories 
of  the  houses,  bushes  whose  boughs  were  as  thick 
as  the  trunk  of  a  plum  tree,  and  that  all  these  lilacs 
were  in  full  bloom.  To  spend  spring  anywhere 
but  in  New  England,  and  New  England  by  the 
sea,  for  the  breath  of  the  sea  mingles  in  the  most 
entrancing  way  with  that  lilac  fragrance,  is  an 
inexcusable  mistake. 

We  breathed  deep.  It  was  difficult  to  keep 
from  cheering.  The  car  took  us  up  Congress 
Street,  right  through  the  centre  of  the  peninsula, 
three  miles  long  and  less  than  a  mile  across  at  its 
widest,  on  which  Portland  has  stood  these  two 
hundred  years  and  more.  We  passed  green  gar- 
dens, old  houses,  blooming  fruit  trees,  florists' 
shops  with  the  pavement  in  front  crowded  with 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

boxes  of  the  biggest  and  bluest  forget-me-nots  that 
had  ever  blessed  our  eyes.  Then  we  reached  the 
commercial  section,  passing  a  statue  of  Longfel- 
low, who  was  born  in  Portland.  And  then  the 
car  stopped  before  the  Falmouth,  the  conductor 
hopped  off,  lifted  down  our  suitcases,  touched 
his  cap  with  a  smile,  and  we  turned  to  find  a  bell 
hop  ready  to  usher  us  into  the  hotel. 

The  Falmouth  is  a  comfortable,  easy-going,  rea- 
sonable place.  Apparently  space  did  not  count 
for  much  when  it  was  built,  for  its  halls  are  wide, 
and  if  our  rooms  were  a  fair  sample,  huge  is  the 
proper  word.  The  bathroom  was  larger  than  a 
whole  three-room  flat  in  New  York. 

"  If  we  ever  get  lost  in  these  rooms  we're  done 
for,"  declared  Sister,  awe-stricken  at  all  that 
spaciousness. 

If  you  do  not  know  the  history  of  a  town  then 
the  town  too  remains  unknown.  A  town  is  like  a 
man — or  a  woman.  You  must  know  something  of 
its  early  life,  its  struggles,  its  triumphs,  of  what 
it  has  stood  for  in  the  past  as  well  as  what  it  stands 
for  now.  There  is  something  unreal  about  a  town 
that  has  no  generations  behind  it.  It  is  this  curi- 
ous feeling  of  unreality  that  makes  so  many  thriv- 
ing places  in  the  West,  small  towns  that  have 
sprung  mushroom  growths  in  a  year  or  a  month, 
seem  almost  ghostlike.  There  they  are,  conjured 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

from  nothing  in  a  moment;  and  at  a  breath  you 
feel  they  will  vanish,  leaving  no  wrack  behind. 

Portland  has  plenty  of  history  and  stands  four- 
square on  the  labours  of  many  generations.  The 
kind  old  faces  of  its  ancient  buildings  look  calmly 
forth  at  the  modern  life  in  its  streets,  its  old 
churches  hold  a  serenity  of  time  as  well  as  of 
beauty. 

The  names  of  men  that  have  merged  into  the 
great  story  of  our  country  are  familiar  to  it,  for 
it  watched  them  play  under  the  shadows  of 
its  mighty  elms  when  they  were  children.  Port- 
land began  with  American  history,  and  must 
surely  go  on  to  its  end,  if  ending  there  is  to  be. 

I  don't  know  but  that  "New  England  Afoot" 
would  have  been  a  better  title  for  this  book.  For 
it  was  in  long  wanderings  on  our  own  feet  that 
we  became  familiar  with  town  after  town.  We 
rarely  condescended  to  take  a  trolley,  and  never, 
except  when  compelled  by  those  domineering  suit- 
cases, a  carriage.  As  for  motor  cars,  we  almost 
knew  them  not.  I  had  toured  New  England  be- 
fore in  an  automobile.  This  time  I  wanted  to  see 
New  England. 

"  Let's  begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  proposed. 
"  In  1632  the  first  settlers,  George  Cleeves  and 
Richard  Tucker,  landed  at  the  foot  of  Mountjoy 
Hill,  on  the  shore  of  Casco  Bay.  They've  got  a 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

monument  somewhere  there  for  them,  and  the  view 
is  one  of  the  loveliest  on  earth.  We'll  walk  the 
length  of  the  Eastern  Promenade  and  lie  on  the 
grass  of  Fort  Allen  Park  and  see  the  ships  in 
the  harbour." 

One  morning  in  San  Francisco  I  took  the  car 
out  to  the  Cliff  House  for  a  swim  in  the  cold 
waters  of  the  Pacific.  As  we  came  in  sight  of 
the  mighty  cliffs,  with  their  black,  volcanic  stone, 
in  whose  cracks  the  yellow  poppies  cling,  and  saw 
the  sea  beating  in  far  below,  breaking  on  the  huge 
rocks  that  had  been  tossed  far  out  by  some  tre- 
mendous action,  a  native  son  behind  me,  who  was 
convoying  two  visitors,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Look  at  that,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  wonder 
that  people  come  here  to  live?  " 

It  was  wonderful.  But  I  remembered  days 
when  I  had  seen  the  wild  Atlantic  rage  against 
the  grey  or  tawny  granite  coastline  of  Maine 
and  Massachusetts,  flinging  its  white  masses  an 
unbelievable  height  into  the  air,  with  a  volume 
of  sound  that  reached  miles  inward.  I  remem- 
bered days  of  unimagined  blue  and  opal,  with 
green  islands  lying  far  out  in  the  unruffled  waters 
and  white-winged  sloops  and  schooners  floating 
idly  on  their  reflections.  I  remembered  the  broad 
sandy  beaches  on  which  the  waves  lapped  softly, 
and  curved  bays  made  picturesque  with  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

colourful  life  that  crowded  the  old  wharves.  And 
I  wondered  why  the  East  did  not  show  some  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  West;  for  surely  it  has  as 
good  a  reason. 

The  morning  shone  and  sparkled  around  us. 
Portland  is  a  particularly  bright,  clean  city,  and 
full  of  greenness.  In  the  old  days  it  was  called  the 
Forest  City,  because  of  the  very  many  huge  elms 
and  maples  that  lined  and  double-lined  its  streets. 
But  the  fire  that  swept  a  large  part  of  it  in  1866 
destroyed  hundreds  of  them.  Nevertheless  we 
stopped  half  a  dozen  times  in  our  walk  to  admire 
some  fine  old  giant,  flinging  its  great  boughs  high 
and  wide.  Lincoln  Park  is  a  pretty  oblong  right 
in  the  heart  of  the  town,  with  many  big  trees. 
Children  were  playing  here,  and  a  flock  of 
pigeons  whirled  and  circled  about  a  fountain  in 
the  centre. 

The  Eastern  Promenade  skirts  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  overhanging  the  waters  of  the  bay.  At  the 
foot  of  this  cliff  the  famous  George  and  Richard 
had  established  their  homes,  and  now  the  monu- 
ment to  them,  a  simple  shaft,  crowns  the  slope 
above.  At  that  time  the  place  was  known  as 
Casco,  later  becoming  Falmouth,  and  finally  Port- 
land in  1785.  But  before  that  time  it  had  been 
practically  wiped  out  twice  by  Indians.  In  1676 
the  first  of  these  attacks  occurred,  every  soul  who 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

wasn't  killed  having  been  carted  off  into  captivity. 
Among  the  killed  was  a  gentleman  named  Thomas 
Brackett,  an  ancestor  of  Thomas  Brackett  Reed, 
who  was  born  in  Portland,  and  whose  statue  is 
placed  on  the  Western  Promenade.  Bracken's 
wife  was  taken  captive  and  died  a  prisoner  in 
Canada.  Two  grandchildren  returned  to  Fal- 
mouth  after  the  second  massacre,  in  1790.  After 
that  time  the  colony  grew  rapidly.  Oddly  enough, 
Reed  had  an  interest  in  the  Settlers'  monument  on 
the  Eastern  Promenade  also,  for  he  was  a  descend- 
ant of  Cleeves. 

We  sauntered  along  the  walk,  looking  out  at 
the  bay,  filled  with  islands,  and  with  boats  sailing 
or  steaming  back  and  forth.  Several  fine 
schooners  lay  at  anchor,  and  gulls  wheeled  above 
them.  Reaching  Fort  Allen  Park,  from  which 
the  finest  view  is  to  be  had,  we  sat  down  under 
some  trees.  Quantities  of  birds  were  singing  and 
flying  around,  red-starts,  yellow  warblers,  and 
goldfinches,  while  robins  stalked  the  creeping 
worms.  Behind  us  the  lines  of  the  old  earthworks 
thrown  up  as  a  defence  against  the  British  ships 
in  the  war  of  the  Revolution  made  gracious 
grass-covered  curves,  and  old  cannon  pointed 
threatening  but  harmless  black  fingers  toward 
the  sea. 

"  This   must   be   the   very   spot  Whittier   was 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

thinking  of  when  he  wrote  *  The  Ranger,'  "  Sister 
said.    "  Remember?  " 

"  Say  the  lines,"  I  begged,  for  Sister's  memory 
is  the  admiration  of  the  family. 

"Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

'Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay!'" 

The  cadenced  lines  translated  the  harmony  be- 
fore us  with  delightful  felicity.  A  sense  of  pro- 
found leisure  blessed  us.  I  could  hardly  believe 
that  only  yesterday  I  had  been  stepping  lively  in 
New  York,  with  some  millions  of  my  fellows. 

The  British  bombardment  in  October,  1775, 
had  burned  and  battered  down  over  three  hun- 
dred houses  and  public  buildings  in  Falmouth. 
There  were  four  ships,  under  the  command  of  a 
Captain  Mowatt,  who  demanded  the  surrender  of 
some  cannon  and  small  arms  from  the  town.  An 
excited  meeting  at  the  tavern  kept  by  Dame  Alice 
Greele  resulted  in  a  refusal,  and  the  firing  began. 
To-day  you  are  still  shown  a  cannon  ball  that 
lodged  in  the  First  Parish  Meeting  House.  The 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

beautiful  old  church  that  occupies  the  same  site 
has  used  this  ball  as  the  ornament  from  which  to 
hang  its  central  chandelier.  As  the  church  is  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  town  the  extent  to  which 
the  town  must  have  suffered  is  clear. 

Dame  Alice's  tavern,  which  was  the  best  in  the 
town,  was  used  throughout  the  Revolution  as  a 
place  of  meeting  for  the  Committee  of  Public 
Safety.  The  tavern  stood  at  the  corner  of  Hamp- 
shire and  Congress  streets,  just  beyond  Lincoln 
Park,  and  during  the  shelling  of  the  town  was  ex- 
posed to  the  worst  fire.  The  rest  of  the  neighbour- 
hood had  fled,  but  not  so  the  stout  Dame.  Every 
house  in  the  immediate  vicinity  was  destroyed, 
either  by  bursting  bombs  or  by  fire,  but  the  lady 
worked  all  through  the  terrific  day,  pouring  water 
on  the  flames  that  started  on  her  premises.  When 
a  red-hot  cannon  ball  fell  in  her  back  yard,  set- 
ting fire  to  some  rubbish  that  had  been  raked  up, 
Dame  Alice  remarked  to  a  neighbour  who  was 
hurrying  by,  as  she  tossed  the  ball  into  the  street 
with  the  assistance  of  a  frying  pan  into  which  she 
had  gathered  it: 

"  The  firing  won't  last  much  longer,  for  you  see 
they  are  making  new  balls  now,  and  can't  even 
wait  for  them  to  cool." 

"  Talk  about  votes  for  women,"  I  remarked,  as 
we  tried  to  conjure  back  that  day  of  destruction, 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"it  seems  to  me  the  town  owes  Alice  a  mark  of 
approbation.  They  say  that  not  a  solitary  man 
stuck  it  out  as  she  did,  but  just  let  their  houses 
burn  till  Mowatt  had  sailed  away." 

After  the  deplorable  fashion  of  so  many  Ameri- 
can towns,  the  lovely  shore  line  is  given  up  to  rail- 
way tracks,  which,  though  mostly  hidden  under 
the  slope,  have  ruined  the  beach.  The  house 
where  Longfellow  was  born,  a  plain  square  struc- 
ture, is  now  surrounded  by  tenements  and  har- 
assed by  the  smoke  and  clatter  of  the  cars.  But 
in  his  day  the  beach  spread  unsullied  before  it, 
and  the  neighbourhood  was  charming,  with  old 
trees  and  pretty  homes.  The  Longfellows  stayed 
here  only  a  year  or  two,  moving  later  into  the 
Wadsworth  house,  in  the  centre  of  town.  This 
house  now  has  an  outlook  simply  on  the  street 
and  opposing  houses,  while  in  Henry's  childhood 
you  looked,  from  the  upper  windows,  clear  out  to 
sea,  saw  the  Light  on  Portland  Head,  the  shore 
of  Cape  Elizabeth,  the  ships  that  came  and  went. 

Cape  Elizabeth,  by  the  way,  was  named  after 
the  well-known  Virgin  Queen  by  Captain  John 
Smith,  of  Pocahontas  fame,  who  happened  to  sail 
into  Casco  Bay  on  one  of  his  expeditions. 

We  hated  to  leave  the  promenade,  so  we  de- 
cided to  walk  back  to  the  northern  end,  with  its 
outlook  over  the  Back  Cove  and  the  country 

-»•  17-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

beyond.  At  one  spot  we  turned  inward  a  bit  to 
get  a  downward  glimpse  of  the  little  city,  so  close 
packed  on  its  small  peninsula,  yet  without  any 
sense  of  being  overcrowded.  The  view  is  from 
another  small  park,  Fort  Sumner.  Portland  loves 
these  green  spots  as  it  loves  trees.  As  for  water, 
you  never  lose  sight  of  it,  be  it  harbour,  cove,  bay, 
or  river,  or  the  shining  little  lake  in  Deer- 
ing  Oaks. 

Together  with  a  number  of  gleeful  automobiles 
that  struck  the  excellent  roadway  with  a  relief 
that  the  country  roads  of  Maine  make  poignant, 
we  took  Washington  Avenue  back  to  the  region 
of  restaurants,  for  to  speak  of  your  appetite  merely 
as  being  good  in  that  sea-city  is  to  equal  in  inor- 
dinate restraint  that  lady  who,  looking  upon  the 
Grand  Canon,  turned  away  remarking  that  it  was 
"  cute." 

We  came  plump  on  the  ancient  Eastern  Ceme- 
tery as  we  struck  Congress  Street,  but  the  wolfish 
rage  within  us  swept  us  on  to  a  place  where  we 
had  previously  seen  a  sign  promising  seafood.  It 
must  have  taken  the  catch  of  a  large  able-bodied 
man  to  provide  that  noonday  meal  of  ours,  be- 
ginning with  a  wonderful  clam  chowder  whose 
creamy  whiteness  proclaimed  it  far  from  Man- 
hattan, continuing  blithely  with  broiled  fish  that 
hardly  knew  death  had  struck  it,  so  fresh  it  was, 

•+18"*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and   rounding  off  with  cold  boiled  lobster  and 
mayonnaise. 

"  This  may  mean  our  mortal  end."  I  put  it  to 
Sister. 

"  I  think  we  can  handle  it,"  she  responded,  with 
a  beautiful  faith,  amply  rewarded.  A  sense  of 
benign  well-being  followed  that  luncheon. 

In  the  peaceful  Afternoon,  over  which  the 
clouds,  drifting  more  slowly,  flung  their  purple 
shadows,  we  returned  to  the  Eastern  Cemetery. 

A  kindly  spot,  of  grassy  hillocks,  old  trees,  wan- 
dering paths,  and  worn  stones.  Somewhere  in  it, 
unmarked,  are  the  graves  of  the  victims  of  the 
Indian  massacres  of  1690.  Poor  folk,  they  had 
been  left  unburied  for  two  years,  and  their  bones 
were  bleached  and  bare  before  Sir  William  Phips, 
on  his  way  to  build  a  fort  at  Pemaquid,  stopped 
and  set  his  men  to  burying  them,  man,  woman, 
and  child,  near  the  ruined  homes  where  they  had 
lived. 

Two  graves,  close  together,  cover  the  bodies  of 
two  captains,   one   English,  one  American,  who 
died  in  the  same  fight  in  1813.     You  can  read 
about  it  in  Longfellow's  "  My  Lost  Youth  " : 
"I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
Ho<w  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 

And  the  dead  sea  captains  as  they  lay 

In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died" 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

The  pioneers,  the  seafarers  and  merchants  of 
Portland's  active  past,  the  soldiers  and  sailors  of 
many  a  war,  the  slanting  grey  stones  bear  names 
and  dates  of  all.  Here  stands  a  monument  to 
young  Lieutenant  Henry  Wadsworth,  Longfel- 
low's uncle,  killed  in  action  before  Tripoli.  Other 
stones  mark  the  journey's  end  of  Commodore  Ed- 
ward Preble,  also  famous  at  Tripoli,  and  of  Rear- 
Admiral  Alden,  fighter  at  Vera  Cruz,  New  Or- 
leans, and  Mobile,  both  of  whom  were  Portland 
born. 

There  is  something  friendly  and  homelike 
about  these  old  New  England  graveyards,  set 
within  the  town's  limits,  overgrown  with  the 
kindly  grass  and  shaded  by  wide-spreading  trees. 
We  found  them  all  down  the  coast,  charming 
places,  where  the  dandelions  blazed  and  the  bees 
hovered  and  the  birds  sang,  and  where,  among  the 
battered  old  stones,  children  played  and  laughed. 
One  can  but  think  that  the  stern  old  Puritans 
who  fill  so  many  of  those  graves  have  grown  kind- 
lier and  gentler  with  the  passing  of  the  centuries, 
and  welcome  now  the  tender  and  lovely  things 
from  which  they  turned  while  alive  here. 

In  the  evening  we  made  our  way  back  to  the 
top  of  Mountjoy  Hill  and  from  a  bench  in  Fort 
Allen  Park  watched  the  wonderful  language  of 
the  lighthouses,  the  most  romantic  in  the  world. 

-*-  20-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  Portland  Head  Light,  to  the  southwest,  at 
the  entrance  to  the  harbour,  was  first  lighted  on 
January  10,  1791,  the  first  on  the  Atlantic 
coast. 

No  summer  would  be  long  enough  to  exhaust 
the  delights  of  those  islands  out  there  in  the  bay, 
"  Islands  that  were  The  Hesperides  "  of  Longfel- 
low's boyish  dreams.  Orre,  Peaks,  Little  Dia- 
mond, Long,  Great  Chebeague,  Cliff  Islands,  the 
very  names  are  summons.  Ferries  run  back  and 
forth,  and  in  the  season  the  excursionists  crowd 
these  and  other  boats,  besides  the  many  private 
launches  and  sailing  vessels  that  give  so  much  life 
to  the  waters. 

At  night  they  all  lie  dark  and  mysterious  in  the 
vast  gulf  of  blue  and  silver. 

Sleep  assailed  us  tremendously,  and  we  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  Falmouth,  through  the  streets 
where  the  young  life  of  the  city  ebbed  and 
flowed,  pouring  in  and  out  of  the  moving  pic- 
ture houses  and  soda  and  ice  cream  parlours, 
or  lingering  before  the  displays  in  the  store 
windows. 

"  What  do  we  fly  at  to-day?  "  asked  Sister,  next 
morning,  as  we  tried  to  decide  which  of  the  com- 
bination breakfasts  attracted  us  most.  Just  as  one 
of  us  made  up  her  mind  that  number  6  hit  the 
nail,  number  4  or  7  would  flourish  a  more  attrac- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

tive  cereal,  while  withdrawing  the  tempting 
grapefruit  6  sported.  These  are  the  difficulties 
of  travel! 

"  Let's  make  it  hither  and  yon,"  I  answered. 
"  Wherever  we  go  we're  sure  to  like  it." 

It  was  a  warm,  soft  day,  and  the  perfume  of 
the  lilacs  and  apple  blossoms  was  more  pro- 
nounced with  the  absence  of  the  wind. 

We  sauntered  about  the  middle  of  town,  visit- 
ing the  fine  new  buildings  of  Maine  granite,  the 
Post  Office  and  City  Hall,  and  the  Courts  and 
County  buildings.  Efficient  and  in  good  taste, 
these  modern  structures  are  like  hundreds  of 
others  all  over  the  country,  satisfactory  but  unin- 
spiring. We  walked  the  length  of  Congress  Street 
and  took  any  turn  to  the  right  or  left  that  ap- 
pealed. Fine  old  houses  in  fine  old  gardens,  many 
of  brick  that  had  evidently  been  imported  in  old 
days  from  Holland  or  England,  remained  sturdily 
among  the  younger  upgrowth.  We  noticed  one 
rather  glowing  custom  to  which  many  Portlanders 
seem  to  succumb.  This  is  to  match  their  red  brick 
houses,  particularly  where  the  bricks  had  been 
painted  a  hot  and  stuffy  red,  instead  of  being  left 
to  the  softer  natural  hue  of  the  baked  clay,  with 
window  shades  of  the  same  intensity. 

What  a  red  refulgence  the  rooms  must  hold! 
No  hot,  quick-tempered  family  could  long  abide 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

them.  Even  looking  at  them  from  the  street 
roused  a  belligerent  feeling. 

The  Wadsworth-Longfellow  house  was  the  first 
brick  building  to  be  put  up  in  Portland,  and  is  a 
fine,  dignified  example  of  Colonial  work.  It  was 
built  in  1785  by  General  Peleg  Wadsworth,  an 
officer  in  the  Revolutionary  Army,  and  now  be- 
longs to  the  Maine  Historical  Society,  the  gift  of 
Mrs.  Anne  Longfellow  Pierce,  the  poet's  sister. 
It  is  beautifully  preserved  and,  standing  a  little 
way  back  from  the  street,  keeps  a  fine  effect  of 
reserve.  Beside  it  and  still  farther  back  is  the 
Museum  of  the  society,  full  of  quaint  relics, 
models  of  boats,  old  figureheads  from  vessels  long 
vanished,  yellow  manuscripts. 

The  spire  of  the  old  First  Parish  Church,  the 
church  of  the  cannon  ball,  is  a  charming,  airy 
thing  superimposed  on  a  square  tower.  The 
church  is  of  stone,  the  proportions  perfect,  and 
it  stands  in  a  grass-grown  plot  shaded  by  trees. 

"  I  wonder  how,  with  churches  like  that  to 
model  themselves  on,  the  builders  of  some  of  the 
other  and  newer  churches  were  left  unhung  by 
an  angered  citizenry?  "  Sister  mused,  as  we  stood 
looking  at  it  for  a  long  while. 

For  there  are  churches  in  Portland  which,  so 
far  as  architectural  charm  goes,  might  far  better 
not  have  been  built.  There  are,  indeed,  a  great 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

many  of  them.  We  discovered,  as  we  zigzagged 
about  the  city,  that  the  impression  of  churches, 
schools,  and  doctors  got  to  be  rather  vast.  Par- 
ticularly the  doctors.  Rows  upon  rows,  house  af- 
ter house,  we  saw  their  signs.  A  fresher,  healthier 
looking  city  than  Portland  I  have  never  seen,  and 
the  winds  that  blow  upon  it  from  sea  or  land  carry 
the  very  tang  of  life.  What,  then,  do  the  doctors 
do?  Perhaps  they  fish  for  lobsters  in  their  plente- 
ous leisure,  out  in  the  blue  harbour  water. 

We  had  heard  that  the  statue  spoken  of  by 
Hawthorne,  the  Dead  Pearl  Diver,  was  to  be  seen 
in  the  Sweat  Memorial  Museum,  the  art  gallery 
of  Portland.  The  building  is  a  pretty  stone  struc- 
ture, white  and  shining,  close  to  the  old  Sweat 
Mansion,  a  fine  specimen  of  Colonial  days.  The 
pictures  in  the  museum  are  unimportant,  many  of 
them  are  depressingly  bad,  but  an  interesting  loan 
exhibition  of  drawings  by  Pennell  hung  on  the 
walls  of  two  rooms.  Cut  out  of  a  beautiful  piece 
of  marble,  Akers'  Pearl  Diver  lies  relaxed,  amid 
shells  and  seaweed,  on  the  sea  bottom.  It  looks 
strangely  romantic  nowadays,  but  the  body  is  ex- 
quisitely modelled,  and  the  sense  of  the  pitifulness 
of  dead  youth  is  present,  as  well  as  its  beauty. 

Not  knowing  just  how,  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  fascinating  park  that  rolled  its  hills,  covered 
with  great  oaks,  round  a  sheet  of  fresh  water. 

-*-  24-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Deering  Oaks,  renowned  for  battle  and  by  Long- 
fellow, a  place  of  dappled  shade  and  sun,  where 
the  grass  was  thick  and  soft  under  the  trees. 

Out  in  the  little  lake  stood  a  dovecote,  with  the 
pigeons  fluttering  round  it,  apparently  not  certain 
whether  they  were  water-birds  or  whether  some 
one  had  made  a  mistake.  Healthy,  rosy  children 
played  about,  and  on  the  grass,  for  no  warning 
sign  kept  you  from  it,  youth  and  maid  lured  squir- 
rels to  eat  peanuts  from  their  hands,  or,  absorbed 
in  each  other,  left  the  little  grey  beasts  to  frisk 
beside  them  unnoticed.  Over  this  ground  the 
early  settlers  had  fought  the  Indians,  led  by  the 
French,  and  the  brook,  now  so  pellucid,  had  run 
red.  In  that  particular  fight  the  settlers  had  come 
off  victors. 

Two  boys  in  a  boat  on  the  lake  managed  to  row 
themselves  under  the  spray  of  the  fountain  that 
aspired  some  dozen  feet  into  the  air,  and  giggled 
and  shrieked  as  the  drops  fell  over  them.  It  was 
too  easy  to  stay,  and  the  hours  slipped  along,  push- 
ing the  sun  westward.  We  wanted  to  see  the  sun- 
set from  the  Western  Promenade,  so  we  got  to 
our  protesting  legs,  that  seemed  to  feel  the  work 
already  accomplished  sufficient  for  the  day,  and 
climbing  upward  along  curving  streets,  reached 
the  height  of  Bramhall  Hill,  along  whose  top  the 
Promenade  extends. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Here  are  a  number  of  the  finest  houses  built 
by  the  fortunate  shipbuilders  of  Portland's  big 
past,  when  the  city,  during  the  Napoleonic  wars, 
kept  her  shipyards  busy  month  in  and  month  out. 
Later  on  the  trade  with  the  West  Indies  was  the 
most  important  business  in  Portland,  which  beat 
New  York  and  Boston  in  the  trade  with  sugar 
and  molasses,  not  to  speak  of  rum,  till  Neale  Dow, 
the  philanthropist,  headed  the  temperance  move- 
ment and  closed  the  business  for  keeps. 

Though,  to  be  sure,  a  grey-haired  shoe-dealer, 
who  fitted  us  with  sneakers  the  first  day  of  our 
stay,  shook  those  grey  locks  over  the  temperance 
question. 

"  You  don't  even  need  to  know  how  to  get  all 
you  want,"  he  confided  to  us.  "  No  trouble.  All 
this  prohibition  does  is  get  us  the  laugh,  that's 
all." 

But,  look  as  we  would,  we  saw  never  a  sign  of 
liquor  in  or  out  of  a  man  all  the  time  we  stayed 
in  Maine. 

Of  course  you  see  water  from  the  Western 
Promenade,  for  the  Fore  River  curls  round  the 
peninsula  south  and  west,  where  Portland  Har- 
bour leaves  off.  But  you  also  see  a  great  sweep  of 
country,  until,  eighty  miles  away,  the  peaks  of  the 
White  Mountains  in  New  Hampshire  march  in  a 
shadowy  procession  along  the  horizon.  All  that 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

country,  how  fair  it  lay,  a  thousand  shades  of 
green  and  rose  and  purple,  even  as  the  water 
spread  in  grey  and  blue  and  silver  expanses  from 
the  Eastern  hill.  What  broad  security  of  space 
lies  round  about  this  fine  old  city! 

The  Western  Promenade  is  beautifully  parked. 
On  the  steep  slope  that  bends  to  the  plains  below 
dark  pines  cluster  thickly,  while  on  the  level 
above  the  grass  and  flowers  and  shrubbery  crowd 
into  vigorous  growth.  Here  the  houses  are  great, 
hospitable,  handsome  homes,  places  built  for  the 
raising  of  great  families  of  sons  and  daughters, 
houses  to  which  the  heart  would  turn  from  what- 
ever wanderings,  thinking  that  there  was  home. 
Looking  out  across  the  river  and  the  country, 
stable,  peaceful,  they  satisfy  intensely  the  demand 
for  space  and  graciousness  and  dignity  that  be- 
longed to  a  less  hurried  and  superficial  genera- 
tion than  that  which,  to-day,  moves  in  and  out  of 
city  flats  and  apartments  with  every  changing 
season. 

After  all,  though,  it  is  the  wharves  and  docks 
of  Portland  that  are  most  particularly  enticing. 
The  funny,  white,  foreign-looking  little  streets 
that  lead  down  to  them,  with  the  one-storied 
buildings  through  the  open  doors  of  which  you 
catch  glimpses  of  tanned  men  working  over  sails 
and  machinery  and  painting  boats  and  mending 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

nets.  The  salty,  fishy  smells.  The  long  slips,  some 
empty  and  unruffled,  others  crowded  with  mar- 
ket boats  and  fishing  smacks,  and  the  long  slatted 
wooden  floats,  flush  with  the  water,  where  the  lob- 
sters are  dumped  as  they  are  brought  in. 

Sister  and  I  watched  the  unloading  of  one  of 
these  floats  for  a  spellbound  hour,  leaning  over  a 
rail  on  a  long  wharf  most  of  which  was  buildings 
and  sheds  of  an  incredibly  aged  appearance.  A 
burly,  white-haired  man,  his  face  burned  to  a 
dark  brick-red,  watched  with  us.  Below  us  a  man 
was  reaching  down  into  the  depths  of  the  float 
with  a  great  scoop,  and  bringing  up  at  least  a 
dozen  huge  shining  lobsters  with  every  dip. 

These  he  expertly  packed  into  a  barrel,  and 
then,  full,  the  barrel  was  hoisted  up  close  beside 
us.  The  top  lobsters  were  extremely  lively,  heav- 
ing their  claws  about  and  flourishing  their  numer- 
ous legs  and  twitching  their  eyes  at  us  as  we  stared. 

We  noticed  that  a  wooden  peg  had  been  driven 
into  the  claws  in  such  a  way  as  to  keep  them  from 
opening  far  enough  to  pinch  anything. 

The  red-faced  man  watching  beside  us  laid  a 
loving  hand  on  one  of  the  biggest. 

"  This  is  the  place  for  'em,"  he  remarked,  in  a 
husky  voice. 

It  was.  After  seeing  that  scoop  bring  them 
up,  minute  after  minute,  it  seemed  as  though  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

whole  bottom  of  Casco  Bay  must  be  a  rallying 
ground  for  lobsters.  Down  other  slips,  other  men 
with  scoops  were  busy  in  the  same  way. 

"  Where  are  all  those  lobsters  going?  "  I  asked 
the  red-faced  man. 

He  pulled  down  the  sleeves  of  his  greeny-blue 
jersey,  which  had  been  rolled  up  over  his  arms. 

"  N'York,"  he  replied,  and  moved  slowly  away. 

The  brilliant  colouring  of  the  lobsters  was  strik- 
ing. That  old  story  about  the  cardinal  of  the  sea 
wasn't  so  far  off.  Those  glistening  creatures  were 
spotted  with  brown  and  scarlet  and  yellow  and 
green,  vivid  as  jewels. 

We  wandered  on,  or  paused  to  sit  in  the  sun  by 
old  men  who  pursued  the  business  of  the  day 
about  their  boats  and  their  fishing  gear  without 
taking  any  notice  of  us.  No  one  moved  hastily, 
all  was  leisurely,  and  yet  busy.  In  the  narrow 
streets  automobiles  stood,  and  those  who  had  come 
in  them  walked  about,  buying  the  fresh  yield  of 
the  sea,  and  other  market  produce  that  had  come 
up  in  boat-loads.  Behind,  the  city  climbed  up- 
ward to  its  hills.  Ferryboats  puffed  in  and  drew 
away  from  their  slips,  but  few  passengers  used 
them.  The  season  of  the  tourist  was  not  yet.  There 
hung  about  those  old  docks  a  sense  of  the  life  of 
the  city  that  was  fascinating.  The  old  shipyards, 
across  the  harbour,  were  idle  now,  but  they  had 

-+•29-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

had  a  great  day.  Portland  owed  its  existence  to 
the  sea.  It  might  be  busy  canning  corn  in  its  fac- 
tories to-day,  to  be  sure,  but  the  sea  could  wait. 
Its  day  would  come  again. 

"  I  feel  our  old  sea  ancestors  astir  in  me,"  Sis- 
ter remarked,  dreamily,  as  we  turned  away  from 
the  wharves  up  by  the  Custom  House.  "  Do  you 
think  we  could  disguise  ourselves  as  boys  and  ship 
before  the  mast?" 

"  Maybe  .  .  .  but  let's  go  and  eat  a  lobster,  a 
nice  broiled  lobster,  now,"  I  proposed.  "  They 
lose  their  spirit  by  the  time  they  reach  N'York. 
This  is  the  place  for  'em." 


Portsmouth 


CHAPTER  II 
Portsmouth 

JOVELY  lies  the  country  between  Port- 
land and  Portsmouth,  with  a  shore  that 
varies  from  broad  flats  of  white  sand  to 
grey  and  weatherbeaten  rock  piled  high 
and  frowning.  Pines  and  birches  crowd  each  other 
in  the  long  stretches  of  woodland,  and  summer 
sees  a  gathering  of  artists  and  idlers  in  the  villages 
that  are  strung  along  irregularly,  sometimes  two 
of  them  rubbing  elbows  while  between  others  sev- 
eral miles  intervene. 

Sister  and  I  sat  each  at  a  window,  and  open  win- 
dows they  were,  looking  forth  upon  the  blue  and 
green  of  sea  and  land  in  great  content.  The  train 
was  undistinguished  by  a  Pullman,  but  it  was 
comfortable  and  not  crowded.  The  joy  of  visit- 
ing any  place  in  the  world  before  the  season  is 
incapable  of  being  overestimated. 

Suddenly,  as  I  realised  that  Portland  really  lay 
behind  us,  I  remembered  that  we  had  neglected 
to  do  something  we  particularly  wanted  to  do. 

"We  never  hunted  up  Mosher!"  I  exclaimed. 
"And  now  it's  too  late!" 

-"33-* 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

The  Mosher  books  had  naturally  always  been  a 
delight  of  ours,  and  though  we  had  heard  that  a 
fire  had  destroyed  part  at  least  of  Mr.  Mosher's 
plant,  we  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  him  and 
whatever  he  chose  to  show  us. 

"  Portland  is  altogether  too  reserved  about  its 
many  charms,"  Sister  thought.  "  Calm,  serene, 
busy  with  its  present-day  work,  it  leaves  the  tour- 
ist to  tour  by  himself.  Of  course  we  forgot  things ; 
we  were  having  too  good  a  time  with  those  we 
found.  All  the  more  reason  for  going  back  the 
next  chance  we  have." 

And  the  further  we  went  on  our  journey  along 
the  seacoast  with  its  old  towns,  the  more  and 
better  reasons  for  returning  whenever  the  chance 
came  we  found.  They  are  all  places  to  stay  in,  not 
to  go  away  from.  Take  Portsmouth.  .  .  . 

We  decided  that  Portsmouth  was  about  the 
hardest  place  to  get  away  from  anywhere  on  earth. 
Any  excuse  is  good  enough  to  hold  you  for  just 
one  more  day,  while  the  most  imperative  reason 
for  departure  seems  unconvincing. 

Portsmouth  is  like  a  fine  old  man  who  has  done 
his  hard  work  and  brought  up  his  sons  and 
daughters,  and  is  now  content  to  sit  quietly  in 
the  sun  and  spin  yarns  of  the  good  old  days  and 
the  mighty  deeds  they  saw.  Grey-haired  and  with 
a  skin  all  ivory  and  pale  brown,  a  flash  of  blue 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  his  bright  old  eyes,  his  voice  is  melodious  as 
the  sea,  and  there  is  a  salt  smell  to  him,  and  hints 
of  past  adventure.  You  love  to  sit  beside  him 
and  look  out  to  sea  and  listen  and  question.  Like 
the  famed  Scheherazade,  he  ends  one  story  only 
to  begin  another,  so  that  you  must  stay  to  hear 
the  ending  of  that  one,  too. 

You  never  lose  this  sense  of  a  personality  to  the 
old  town,  an  individuality  that  is  human.  There 
is  nothing  mechanical,  planned,  or  ordered  about 
it.  Its  streets  wind  whither  they  choose,  turning 
abruptly,  ceasing  to  be,  peremptory  and  whimsi- 
cal as  a  stout  old  sea-captain.  It  has  grown  by 
degrees  till  it  reached  maturity,  and  then  it 
ripened,  without  changing  much  in  aspect  or 
character,  though  the  days  of  labour  were  over. 

When  we  reached  it,  on  that  soft  May  morn- 
ing, it  was  lounging  at  ease,  pipe  in  its  mouth  and 
hands  in  its  pockets.  No  visitors  were  looked  for, 
and  though  a  few  passengers  got  off  at  the  sta- 
tion with  Sister  and  me,  they  were  evidently  com- 
ing home,  for  they  climbed  into  waiting  buggies 
or  Fords,  or  walked  off  with  the  assurance  of 
familiarity,  while  we  were  left  at  the  deserted 
station,  we  and  our  suitcases. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  the  Rockingham  is, 
and  how  shall  we  get  to  it  with  these  white 
elephants?  " 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

We  secured  some  rather  incoherent  directions 
from  the  ticket  agent,  and  prepared  to  exhibit  our- 
selves as  strong  women. 

But  at  that  identical  moment  a  small  boy,  surely 
not  yet  in  his  teens,  hove  into  sight,  whistling. 
He  stopped  his  youthful  music  at  once,  and  has- 
tened toward  us. 

"  Carry  your  bags,  lady,  carry  your  bags,"  he 
shrilled. 

"  Go  to  it,  son,"  we  responded.  "  If  you  can 
carry  those  things  to  the  Rockingham  you  will 
have  not  only  our  respect  and  admiration  but  a 
quarter." 

"  I'll  take  a  chanst,"  he  replied,  and  forthwith 
tackled  the  job.  It  was  a  real  labour  of  Hercules. 
Ahead  of  us  he  tottered,  a  gallant  little  figure 
in  a  ragged  red  sweater,  faded  knee  pants, 
and  bare  feet.  His  arms  strained  downward, 
and  now  and  again  he  set  down  the  bags  and 
grinned  back  at  us.  But  he  refused  our  proffered 
help. 

"  I'll  carry  'em  till  me  hands  git  pulled  off, 
anyways,"  was  what  he  said. 

Maybe  it  wasn't  long  to  the  hotel ;  he  had  said 
that  the  way  was  short  But  by  the  time  we 
reached  the  foot  of  the  flight  of  stone  steps  that 
led  up  to  its  red  immensity,  arbitrary  measure  of 
space  had  ceased  to  exist  for  any  of  us. 

-+36-*- 


U 

:  lll<!&7  ,     I 


y  "**&-**) 

^^_iip" 


< 

.','  ^:>>5   .     r-A 

'          • 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

I  added  a  nickel  to  the  agreed  upon  price,  and 
the  boy  walked  soberly  off  to  the  corner,  when  I 
perceived  him  to  spring  suddenly  upward  into  the 
air  and  make  off  with  astonishing  speed,  emitting 
new  and  shriller  whistles  as  he  faded  out  of 
sight. 

The  Rockingham  is  a  fatal  mistake  as  far  as 
appearances  go,  an  alien  and  ugly  splotch  on  the 
fair  beauty  of  the  town,  but  it  is  comfortable  and 
well  run,  with  a  good  table  of  the  typical  Ameri- 
can plan  sort.  Also,  from  its  upper  windows  you 
get  a  wonderful  outlook  all  over  the  town,  with 
its  pale  buff  and  grey  and  cream-coloured  houses 
bowered  in  great  trees;  you  see  pretty  Langdon 
Park  and  the  South  Mill  Pond,  in  front,  with  the 
flashing  Piscataqua  River,  on  which  the  town  lies, 
to  the  left,  and  North  Mill  Pond  behind.  It  is 
a  goodly  view,  and  an  inviting. 

"Let's  unpack  our  demon  suitcases,  and  get 
out,"  Sister  urged,  as  we  turned  away  from  the 
window. 

Upon  which  I  discovered  that  I  had  left  my 
key  behind  in  Portland.  I  could  see  it  plainly, 
in  my  mind's  eye,  where  it  lay,  right  on  the  cor- 
ner of  one  of  the  several  bureaus  in  that  enormous 
room,  a  tiny  thing  in  the  immensity.  The  suitcase 
leered  at  me. 

"  Give  me  your  hair-curler,"  I  said.    And  when 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

it  was  over,  the  curler  was  a  hopeless,  mangled 
thing,  and  the  case  gaped  a  bit  in  the  middle,  but 
it  was  open. 

I  had  reached  the  point  where  I  had  to  assert 
myself,  and  a  locksmith  would  not  have  satis- 
fied me. 

Then,  free  and  happy,  we  went  out  into  the 
sunshine  and  the  lilac-scented  air  of  the  old 
town. 

There  is  one  writer  who  is  especially  connected 
with  Portsmouth,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  And, 
because  we  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  know  him 
in  his  charming  old  age,  that  was  so  full  of  youth, 
we  wanted  to  see  the  place  where  so  much  of  his 
early  life  was  spent.  Aldrich  loved  Portsmouth, 
loved  the  great  river  on  which  it  lay,  and  of  which 
he  wrote  in  longing: 

"But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my   life  to  lie 
An  hour  upon  your  breast!" 

Court  Street  holds  the  Aldrich  house,  which  is 
known  as  the  Bailey  House,  and  if  ever  a  street  was 
fit  for  a  poet's  birth  it  is  this  curving,  wandering 
street,  with  a  high  white  wooden  fence  topped 
with  white  railings  at  one  side,  and  old  houses, 
gardens,  greenery,  on  the  other.  Its  broad  stone 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

flagging  is  good  to  walk  upon,  and  over  the  high 
wall  bend  lilac,  apple,  and  wistaria,  purple  and 
pink  and  mauve  and  very  sweet.  The  pretty  grey 
house  is  kept  up  by  the  Historical  Society,  but 
it  was  not  open  to  the  visitor  as  yet.  However,  we 
did  not  care.  We  leaned  over  the  gate,  looking 
into  the  enchanting  garden,  and  then  idled  on 
down  the  street,  as  so  often  the  young  Thomas 
must  have  idled,  moving  to  the  wharves  he  loved 
so  much.  Over  here  is  the  older  part  of  the  old 
town,  the  old  Strawberry  Bank  where  the  first 
settlers  built  their  homes,  and  where  the  wild 
strawberries  made  a  red  and  luscious  carpet  in 
Junes  long  gone.  Now  the  silent  old  streets  and 
empty  wharves,  with  the  tumbledown  warehouses 
that  speak  of  a  crowded  and  busy  existence  in 
Portsmouth's  heyday,  back  in  1812,  when  the  town 
beat  Boston  and  New  York  as  a  port  of  entry  and 
departure  for  West  Indian  trading,  sleep  away  in 
the  sun,  lulled  by  the  laughter  of  the  young- 
sters who  ride  their  bicycles  and  play  their 
games  where  merchant  and  whaler  used  to  fore- 
gather. 

It  is  hard  to  get  away  from  the  wharves.  No 
such  busy  life  as  that  of  Portland  disturbs  them. 
Out  at  the  end  of  one  of  them  you  can  look  along 
the  whole  line,  jutting  out  into  the  river,  which 
is  here  so  broad  and  calm  that  it  is  more  like  a 

-+39*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

lake  than  a  river,  and  the  salt  sea  seems  farther 
away  by  many  a  mile  than  it  is.  Each  long  wharf 
appeared  to  be  the  peculiar  property  of  a  single 
old  man,  who  sat  or  stood  at  its  extremity,  pa- 
tiently fishing;  we  saw  no  sign  of  a  caught  fish, 
but  hope  and  faith  were  there,  with  the  wonder- 
ful patience  of  age  and  the  fishing  instinct.  It 
reminded  me  of  rivers  in  France,  lined  with  the 
same  type  of  humanity,  peaceful  souls,  intent,  un- 
successful, happy.  I  remembered  one  old  fellow, 
who  was  a  sojourner  with  us  in  a  quaint  hostelry 
at  Grez-sur-Loing.  Morning  after  morning  he 
went  to  his  spot  on  the  river  bank,  evening  after 
evening  returned,  content  and  serene,  with  never 
a  fish  to  show.  One  day  I  was  rowing  past  his 
stand  when  he  called  to  me;  he  seemed  disturbed, 
uneasy.  I  drew  near,  and  he  held  up  two  small 
and  shining  victims. 

"  Voyez,  Madame!"  he  cried.  And  there  was 
trouble  in  his  eyes.  I  felicitated  him,  I  burst  out 
into  terms  of  admiration  at  this  unlooked  for  suc- 
cess. 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Pauvres  petits,"  he  murmured.  "  C'est  un  peu 
triste,  n'est-ce  pas?  " 

So  far  as  we  could  see,  however,  no  such  sad 
incident  marred  the  fishing  from  the  old  wharves 
at  Strawberry  Bank.  In  the  slips  were  several 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  the  long,  slatted  lobster  floats  that  had  been  so 
crammed  with  lively  crustaceans  in  Portland. 
There  were  lobsters  for  the  taking,  out  there  in 
the  blue,  too,  but  the  town  caught  only  what  it 
needed  for  home  consumption.  N'York  was  not 
served  from  here,  and  no  one  worked,  packing 
or  scooping,  for  the  palaces  along  Broad- 
way. 

Opposite,  across  the  water,  the  Navy  Yard, 
modern  and  efficient,  and  looking  at  the  moment 
to  be  thronged  with  battleships,  was  accessible  by 
ferry.  There  was  work  enough  in  progress  here! 
One  huge  man-of-war  was  being  painted  from 
stem  to  stern,  and  presented  a  vermilion  glare  to 
the  dazzled  eyes.  We  sat  at  the  end  of  our  wharf, 
beside  the  particular  old  man  who  was  fishing 
there,  and  looked,  but  felt  no  urge  to  go.  Navy 
yards  exist  in  other  places,  with  their  guns  and 
their  Jackies  and  their  ships  in  process  of  being 
overhauled.  Some  other  day,  we  decided,  we 
would  take  the  ferry;  but  just  now  to  leave  Ports- 
mouth for  even  so  short  a  trip  would  be  the  height 
of  foolishness. 

And  we  never  did  get  to  the  Navy  Yard.  In 
fact,  we  became  shameless  about  it.  The  peace- 
ful town  had  us  in  its  friendly  grip ;  when  we  wan- 
dered, it  was  along  the  shores  or  under  the  pines 
that  surround  it,  or  across  to  Kittery  Point,  a  fas- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

cinating  walk,  and  not  among  cannon  and  the  en- 
gines of  war. 

The  business  section  of  Portsmouth  is  concen- 
trated on  Market  and  Congress  streets  and  Mar- 
ket Square,  which  used  to  be  known  as  the  Pa- 
rade. Cobble-paved  and  with  brick  sidewalks, 
these  streets  are  hedged  by  one  old  building  after 
another,  among  them  the  Atheneum,  of  red  brick 
with  white  stone  facings,  an  exquisite  fagade  of 
pure  Colonial  type.  Almost  opposite  is  the  old 
North  Church,  the  most  beautiful  in  the  town, 
with  its  slender  white  spire,  and  a  sweet-toned 
bell.  Sunday  morning  is  alert  with  swinging 
bells  in  Portsmouth.  They  come  from  every  side, 
crossing  each  other,  a  tangle  of  clanging  melody, 
with  the  deep  note  of  the  bell  on  St.  John's 
upon  Church  Hill,  which  was  built  in  1808,  dom- 
inating the  rest.  This  plain  old  church,  a  fine 
structure,  was  built  on  the  site  of  Queen's  Chapel, 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1806,  on  Christmas  Eve,  and 
dating  from  1732.  The  bell  is  said  to  be  the  same 
that  rang  from  Queen's,  and  which  was  saved  from 
destruction.  It  has  the  mellowness  of  time  in  its 
old  throat.  Other  relics  from  the  chapel  still  used 
in  the  church  are  two  doors  of  solid  mahogany, 
given  by  Queen  Caroline,  in  whose  honour  the 
chapel  was  named,  and  a  font  of  porphyry,  which 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

was  a  gift  to  the  Episcopal  Society  from  Colonel 
John  Tufton  Mason,  who  had  captured  it  from 
the  French  in  1758. 

You  cannot  walk  three  paces  in  Portsmouth 
without  stumbling  on  a  historical  fact  or  seeing 
an  ancient  doorway  through  which  have  passed 
great  personages  of  our  country's  life.  Washing- 
ton of  course  slept  in  the  town  as  frequently  as 
elsewhere  in  New  England,  where  the  sea  air 
makes  sleeping  both  a  charm  and  a  necessity.  It 
was  at  what  he  called  "  Colonel  Brewster's  Tav- 
ern "  that  .he  was  entertained  in  Portsmouth,  a 
house  of  great  memories,  but  swept  away  by  fire 
in  1813,  like  so  many  wooden  buildings  of  New 
England. 

There  was  one  house  we  wanted  to  see,  both 
for  its  romantic  associations  and  because  it  was 
situate,  to  use  the  old  phrase,  on  Little  Harbour, 
a  lovely  walk  from  the  heart  of  town  past  the 
South  Cemetery  and  through  pine  woods.  On  a 
golden  morning  we  set  out,  undisturbed  by  the 
agitated  hotel  clerk,  who  told  us  it  "  was  more 
than  two  miles  walk  out  there." 

The  Benning-Wentworth  House  has  for  its 
heroine  the  Martha  Hilton  of  Longfellow's "  Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn."  Martha  was  maid  at  the  first 
of  the  Earl  of  Halifax  inns,  in  Queen,  now  State 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Street,  and  was  chidden  by  Dame  Stavers  for  the 
baring  of  her  brown  shoulders  and  the  scantiness 
of  her  skirts. 

"I  shall  ride  in  my  chariot  yet,"  the  girl  as- 
serted, laughing  and  entirely  unabashed. 

And  presently  she  was  servant  to  Governor 
Wentworth,  who  lived  in 

'  .    .    .   a  Great  House,  looking  out  to  sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  'was  good  to  be   .    .    ." 

and  there  she  remained  for  seven  years,  until,  on 
his  birthday,  the  Governor  took  her  to  wife.  So 
Martha  went  on  living  there,  a  grand  lady,  and 
took  many  a  drive  past  the  inn,  that  Dame  Stavers 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  looking  upon  her  more 
fitly  clothed  than  when  she  roused  the  disapproba- 
tion of  her  former  mistress. 

The  sea-wind  was  making  music  in  the  pines  as 
we  walked  under  them,  and  presently  under  their 
glancing  sun  and  shade  we  saw  a  charming  little 
chapel,  now  closed  and  silent,  though  it  was  Sun- 
day morning.  Probably  when  the  summer  is  in 
full  swing  its  doors  are  opened,  and  people  enter, 
together  with  the  breath  of  the  pines,  which  grow 
close  to  door  and  windows,  and  the  song  of  the 
birds,  that  were  flitting  all  about.  It  is  of  the 
simplest  construction,  of  stucco  and  wood,  merg- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ing  with  the  nature  about  it  in  the  most  harmoni- 
ous manner.  Chapel  of  the  New  Jerusalem  it  is 
called,  and  a  stone  bears  this  inscription: 

This  Chapel  is  dedicated 
to  the  teaching  of  Christ 
and  to  His  Universal 
Church  of  Faithful  Souls 
Who  have  chosen  the 
Freedom  of  His  King- 
dom rather  than  the 
bondage  of  Self  and 
of  the  World.  All  are 
Welcome. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  think  of  a  better  inscrip- 
tion for  a  place  of  worship  in  such  surroundings. 
The  mere  reading  of  it  made  a  sermon,  and  we 
walked  on  over  the  brown  pine  needles  that  gave 
so  soft  a  treading  with  a  feeling  of  peace  and 
well-being. 

A  little  while  more,  and  we  reached  the  old 
house  we  were  looking  for,  which  was  completed 
in  1750.  In  it  Parkman,  the  historian,  often 
stayed,  writing  several  of  his  books  there.  It  was 
indeed  a  "  goodly  place  to  be."  The  building  is 
the  fulfilment  of  a  man's  fancy,  a  quaint  structure, 
oddly  shaped,  with  high  gables  and  unexpected 
wings  and  extensions,  some  of  it  two  stories,  the 
rest  but  one.  It  is  singularly  attractive,  and  lying 

H-45+- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

as  it  does  in  one  of  the  most  bewitching  of  old- 
time  gardens,  it  becomes  adorable. 

Never  had  we  seen  such  lilacs! 

They  must  have  been  as  old  as  the  house,  so 
immensely  thick  were  their  trunks,  so  high  they 
grew.  They  bowered  the  house,  and  stretched 
down  to  the  water  in  clump  after  clump  of  vig- 
orous growth,  a  wealth  of  fragrance  and  colour. 
Butterflies  floated  above  them  in  a  dance  of 
drunken  joy.  Here  indeed  was  a  heaven  for  them. 

A  fence  surrounded  this  garden,  whose  posts 
were  surmounted  by  carved  frogs,  turtles,  hares, 
and  doves.  Daffodils  bloomed  thick  in  the  grass, 
which  sloped  down  to  the  harbour.  We  knew 
that  this  house  had  some  splendid  rooms,  for  there 
is  a  fine  description  in  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich's 
little  book,  "  An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea."  But  we 
did  not  disturb  the  dwellers  therein,  who  might 
or  might  not  have  been  willing  to  allow  us  en- 
trance. We  walked  past  the  lilacs  to  the  shore, 
where  a  large  boathouse  and  wharf  were  built. 
At  one  side  of  the  boathouse  lay  a  fine  old  sloop 
painted  a  sea  green,  and  with  a  stout  mast,  but  no 
other  rigging.  The  tide  was  low  and  rocks 
showed  brown  heads,  shaggy  with  seaweed,  above 
the  placid  water.  On  one  of  the  largest  of  these 
a  queer  old  shack  of  wood,  with  a  tower,  looking 
like  an  amateur  and  ruined  lighthouse,  but  ap- 

-••46*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

patently  still  habitable,  faced  the  weather.  A 
man  was  rowing  about  idly,  under  the  protection 
of  a  huge  straw  hat. 

"  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  be  a  servant  girl  here  than 
a  leader  of  society  in  New  York,"  said  Sister,  as 
we  sat  down  on  the  astoundingly  green  grass  and 
looked  at  Little  Harbour,  and  tried  to  get  as  much 
of  the  mingled  smell  of  sea  and  pine  and  lilac  into 
our  lungs  as  they  could  possibly  contain.  "  Yes, 
I  distinctly  envy  Martha,  either  as  maid  or  mis- 
tress." 

There  is  another  Wentworth  house  in  Ports- 
mouth, also  the  seat  of  a  Governor,  for  there  were 
three  Governors  of  that  name  in  Portsmouth,  each 
with  a  fine  house,  though  we  saw  only  two.  The 
third  has  perhaps  vanished,  by  fire  or  progress, 
for  occasionally  even  here  a  new  house  takes  the 
place  of  an  old  one.  The  second  house  is  on  Pleas- 
ant Street,  where  most  of  the  finest  of  the  old 
houses  still  stand,  shaded  by  the  great  horse-chest- 
nuts and  elms  that  grace  so  many  of  the  streets. 
It  was  built  in  1769  and  is  one  of  the  handsomest 
in  the  city,  spacious,  full  of  dignity  as  of  years. 

A  walk  along  this  same  Pleasant  Street  will 
make  you  to  subscribe  to  its  name  with  the  utmost 
heartiness.  Near  the  Wentworth  house  is  the  Gov- 
ernor Langdon  House,  of  which  Washington 
wrote  in  his  diary:  "  There  are  many  good  houses, 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

among  which  Colonel  Langdon's  may  be  esteemed 
the  first"  It  may  still  so  be  esteemed. 

Standing  back  from  the  street  in  a  spacious  gar- 
den, solid,  calm,  of  perfect  proportion,  and  tinted 
that  particular  tone  of  pale  yellow  that  we  call 
Colonial,  with  its  flat-topped  roof,  decked  and 
railed  for  a  promenade,  like  so  many  seacoast 
houses,  there  is  a  sense  of  the  imposing  to  the 
house.  The  pillared  entrance,  a  curved  portico, 
the  handsome  pilasters  at  each  corner,  the  tessel- 
lated marble  pavement  that  leads  from  the  gate  to 
the  front  steps,  all  contribute  their  part.  Here 
Louis  Philippe,  afterward  on  the  throne  of 
France,  came  with  his  two  brothers,  the  Dukes  of 
Montpensier  and  Beaujolais,  and  here  too  the 
Marquis  of  Chastellux  was  entertained.  The  Mar- 
quis speaks  of  his  host,  Governor  Wentworth,  as 
a  "  handsome  man,  of  noble  carriage,"  and  his 
house  as  "  elegant  and  well-furnished."  Surely 
it  is  so  still,  for  it  has  never  been  suffered  to  fall 
into  despair  or  feel  neglect. 

One  might  spend  days  in  hunting  down  the  old 
houses  of  Portsmouth,  and  happy  days.  But  I 
will  speak  of  only  three  more,  each  too  interest- 
ing to  leave  unmentioned.  One  of  these  is  the  old 
Warner  House,  the  first  brick  house  to  be  built  in 
the  town,  dating  from  1718.  It  was  built  by  a 
Scotch  merchant,  who  was  also  the  projector  of 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

one  of  the  earliest  ironworks  to  be  set  up  in 
America.  The  bricks  were  imported  from  Hol- 
land, the  walls  being  eighteen  inches  thick. 

Pale  yellow,  shaded  by  fine  trees,  three  stories 
high,  with  a  gambrel  roof  and  beautiful  luthern 
windows,  the  house  is  one  of  the  best  extant.  It 
was  closed  when  we  saw  it,  and  seemed  to  be  un- 
lived in,  though  possibly  this  is  not  the  case,  and 
later  in  the  season  it  may  open  its  doors.  The 
house  gets  its  name  from  the  son-in-law  of  the 
builder,  Jonathan  Warner,  who  was  said  to  be  the 
last  wearer  of  a  cocked  hat  in  Portsmouth.  There 
is  a  most  delightful  description  of  this  house  in  Al- 
drich's  book,  for  he  was  thoroughly  familiar  with 
it.  He  tells  how,  thirty  or  forty  years  before  his 
writing,  a  series  of  long-hidden  paintings  on  the 
walls  of  the  lower  hall  were  unexpectedly  brought 
to  light  when  it  became  necessary  to  remove  the 
papering.  "  At  one  place,  where  two  or  three 
coats  had  peeled  off  cleanly,  a  horse's  hoof  was 
observed  by  a  little  girl  of  the  family.  The  work- 
man then  began  to  remove  the  paper  carefully 
.  .  .  and  the  astonished  paper-hanger  presently 
stood  before  a  life-size  representation  of  Governor 
Phipps  on  his  charger.  .  .  .  The  remaining 
portions  of  the  wall  were  speedily  stripped,  laying 
bare  four  or  five  hundred  square  feet  covered  with 
sketches  in  colour,  landscapes,  views  of  unknown 

-j-49-e- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

cities,  Biblical  scenes,  and  modern  figure-pieces, 
among  which  was  a  lady  at  a  spinning-wheel 
.  .  .  clearly,  the  work  of  a  practised  hand." 

There  is  another  item  well  worth  remarking  to 
this  old  house.  The  lightning  rod,  still  in  place, 
was  placed  there  under  the  personal  supervision 
of  Benjamin  Franklin,  in  1762. 

Close  to  the  water's  edge,  on  Gardner  Street, 
stands  the  Wentworth-Gardner  House,  one  of  the 
chain  of  Colonial  houses  bought  and  put  into  com- 
plete order,  furnishings  and  all,  by  Mr.  Wallace 
Nutting.  There  are  four  of  these  houses,  each  a 
notable  example  of  its  type,  one  at  Lynn,  one  at 
Haverhill,  and  one  at  Newburyport,  besides  this 
at  Portsmouth.  The  work  of  furnishing  and  re- 
storing has  been  accomplished  with  the  keenest 
pleasure  and  no  end  of  trouble,  and  a  visit  to  any 
one  of  these  houses  is  a  complete  education  in 
Colonial  home  expression. 

A  huge  and  beautiful  linden  tree  stands  beside 
the  house,  said  to  be  the  largest  in  the  state.  We 
paid  our  quarter  for  the  privilege  of  walking 
through  the  fine  old  rooms.  The  hall  is  a  thing 
of  pure  joy,  the  stairs  wide  and  with  a  low  tread, 
the  carving  of  cornices  and  mantels  and  panelling 
throughout  the  house  the  work  of  a  master.  Why 
is  it  that  America  has  lost  the  art  of  making  these 
perfect  homes?  There  they  stand,  throughout 


Hi>il 


of  ••  '•',,  . !  iTft  **,  'mS  "-  • :;  V-  •  •'•T 


j§a?s     s^5*h-m;vWf  j: 

n-SS^^as^l-fW 

y  :  ^&*T-— ^S=p   ^  •;;i1.:i;t:  i! 


8BH»^'  ivfj  i\  ! 

-gpWlJ'Vj 

<^    V      ' 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

New  England,  the  peace  of  their  beautiful  pro- 
portions satisfying  the  spirit  of  you,  their  colour 
a  harmony,  every  detail  an  artistic  accomplish- 
ment, simple,  adequate.  And  slowly,  one  by  one, 
they  give  way  before  the  commonplace  and  the 
crude.  Men  like  Mr.  Nutting  and  others  who  are 
at  work  saving  these  places  will  get  a  vote  of 
thanks  from  posterity,  if  nothing  more  tangible. 

In  the  western  room  of  this  particular  house 
Sister  and  I  found  an  artist  at  work  painting  the 
walls  with  a  sea  scene.  At  one  side  the  wharves 
and  piers  of  old  Strawberry  Bank,  the  sunset  be- 
hind them,  jutted  out  into  the  river,  with  a  forest 
of  slender  masts  and  a  sail  or  two,  one  of  these  a 
splendid  red.  Further  along  the  Bon  Homme 
Richard,  which  put  out  from  this  port,  was  sailing 
the  high  seas  with  all  sails  set.  Other  famous  frig- 
ates cleft  the  wave,  and  the  whole  was  a  fas- 
cinating mingling  of  blue  and  green  and  purple 
shot  with  gold.  The  artist,  a  small  and  smiling 
man,  was  enjoying  himself  greatly. 

"  There's  something  about  those  frigates,"  he 
said.  "  No  other  ship  ever  touched  them  for 
beauty.  I  paint  here  all  day  long,  and  I'll  be  sorry 
when  it's  done." 

We  too  were  sorry  when  we  had  to  leave.  The 
little  room,  with  its  walls  of  sea  and  sky  and  flying 
ships  and  sunset  calm,  was  of  a  magic  quality. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

What  a  place  to  tell  old  sea  tales  before  the  flick- 
ering woodfire  of  winter  nights,  and  to  dream  of 
far  adventure! 

There  was  one  more  house  we  wanted  to  see, 
the  oldest  left  in  the  town,  known  as  the  Jackson 
House,  built  in  1664.  To  get  to  it  we  walked 
along  picturesque  Water  Street  and  Bow  and 
Market,  and  crossed  into  Vaughan  Street  to  take  a 
look  at  the  unpretentious  little  place  where  Daniel 
Webster  brought  his  bride.  A  shop  is  being  con- 
structed in  the  lower  story  of  this  house,  called  the 
Meserve  House,  and  evidently  no  attempt  is  being 
made  to  keep  this  interesting  relic  of  past  history 
uninjured. 

From  there  we  crossed  the  bridge  that  leads 
over  the  North  Mill  Pond.  It  was  a  singing,  shin- 
ing day,  with  bobolinks  doing  the  most  of  the 
former,  and  the  country  road  was  enticing. 

Everywhere  out  of  Portsmouth  the  fields  and 
woods  beckon  and  invite.  It  takes  only  a  short 
while  to  find  yourself  far  from  the  little  town, 
but  it  is  good  to  know  that  it  lies  there  back  of  you, 
waiting  your  return. 

"  It's  marvellous  to  a  New  Yorker,"  I  told  Sis- 
ter, "  this  realisation  that  things  aren't  going  to  be 
different  when  you  get  back.  Those  old  streets, 
those  quiet  houses,  those  strong  and  tall  trees,  the 
little  shops  ...  all  there!  Year  in  and  year 

+  52-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

out.  When  I  get  back  to  my  place  in  New  York 
I  shall  find  a  whole  row  of  houses,  that  were  there 
when  I  left,  gone — and  where  there  was  nothing 
but  a  hole  in  the  ground  there  will  be  a  great 
crossing  and  towering  of  iron  girders  .  .  .  r 

The  Jackson  house  seems  to  have  sunk  into  the 
ground  with  advancing  years  till  at  one  side, 
where  the  road  runs,  the  roof  rests  right  on  it. 
A  long  slope  of  silver-grey  shingles,  this  high- 
peaked  roof.  There  is  a  lean-to,  but  even  so  the 
house  is  small,  and  tucked  cornerwise  into  a  pretty 
garden  full  of  lilacs  and  chickens.  The  house  it- 
self is  empty,  however,  the  windows  broken,  and 
a  battered  look  is  coming  over  it.  Some  artist 
ought  to  come  along  and  rescue  it,  for  its  outlook 
is  charming  and  its  possibilities  fine. 

It  was  one  of  the  many  places  where  we  felt 
that  we  wanted  to  stay.  The  New  England  sea- 
coast  is  dotted  with  such  places. 

In  the  Public  Library,  that  occupies  an  old 
house  with  one  of  the  finest  doorways  I  ever  saw, 
on  Islington  Street,  we  saw  what  we  found 
nowhere  else :  a  shelf  with  the  sign  over  it  "  Ship's 
Books."  In  it  were  the  histories  of  famous  ships, 
sea  stories,  technical  works,  tales  of  cruises  and 
whaling  voyages,  well-worn  volumes. 

"  I  suppose  many  a  seafaring  man  has  turned 
these  pages,"  Sister  remarked.  And  she  declared 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  book  she  held  had  a  salty  fragrance.  It  was  a 
dissertation  on  fore  and  aft  rigging,  with  fascinat- 
ing diagrams. 

Kittery  Point  is  almost  part  of  Portsmouth,  con- 
nected to  it  by  a  long  bridge  and  a  delightful  pine- 
shadowed  road.  We  liked  that  walk  about  as 
much  as  anything  can  be  liked.  Pine  and  sea  smell 
go  well  together,  and  make  a  wonderful  music  out 
of  such  vagrant  air  currents  as  sail  past.  Out  that 
way,  too,  is  Newcastle,  where  a  white  and  everlast- 
ingly large  hotel  makes  a  sort  of  fairy  palace  ef- 
fect on  what  is  almost  an  island.  Hither  hurry 
the  rich  and  the  idle  of  summer  to  spend  long 
days  of  enchantment.  Near  here  the  poet  Sted- 
man  used  to  have  his  summer  home,  and  Howells 
too  has  stayed  here.  Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  name  is 
linked  to  Kittery,  and  often  she  must  have  walked 
those  three  bridges  to  old  Newcastle  town  that 
step  from  island  to  island,  and  have,  as  Aldrich 
claimed,  the  loveliest  scenery  of  New  Hampshire 
on  either  side. 

The  first  American  baronet,  Sir  William  Pep- 
perill,  lived  at  Kittery  Point,  and  now  lies  buried 
there.  His  was  known  as  a  "  goodly  mansion," 
and  can  yet  be  seen,  though  far  smaller  and  less 
imposing  than  once  it  was,  for  portions  have  been 
pulled  down  by  ensuing  generations. 

The  cruel  but  exquisite  Isles  of  Shoals  lie  out 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

this  way,  connected  to  Portsmouth  by  steamer — a 
nine-mile  trip  out.  What  names  they  have,  these 
isles!  Smutty-Nose,  Star,  White,  Appledore  are 
some  of  them.  It  was  on  Appledore  that  Celia 
Thaxter  had  her  home,  and  there  is  a  hotel  there 
too.  White  has  a  lighthouse,  and  Star  a  pic- 
turesque and  tiny  town  called  Gosport,  with  a 
white  church  and  heaven-pointing  steeple.  Happy 
isles  they  seem  these  summer  days,  but  when  the 
fierce  storms  sweep  from  the  eastern  horizon  they 
snarl  and  roar  like  hungry  lions  and  many  a  brave 
ship  have  they  ground  to  pieces. 

As  the  time  drew  on  and  we  realised  that  if  we 
were  to  see  any  more  of  the  seaport  towns  we  must 
take  ourselves  and  our  suitcases  away  from  the 
red  stone  comfortableness  of  the  Rockingham,  we 
remembered  that  we  had  decided  that  we  should 
stay  in  each  place  that  particularly  appealed  to  us 
"  as  long  as  we  wanted  to." 

"Idiots!  "  exclaimed  Sister,  as  we  leaned  on  the 
bridge  rail  and  looked  out  at  beauty  and  breathed 
delight.  "  One  could  string  summer  to  summer 
endlessly  here,  and  still  not  want  to  go.  Winter 
too — how  splendid  it  must  be  here  in  the  season 
of  storm,  and  when  the  snow  buries  all  those  trees 
in  white  magic!  Let's  come  back." 

Did  any  one  ever  leave  Portsmouth  without  that 
determination,  I  wonder? 


Newburyport 


CHAPTER  III 

Newburyport 

|INCE  we  had  to  go,  we  wanted  to  draw 
away  gradually,  and  we  knew  that  the 
ride    to   Newburyport   by   trolley   was 
through  charming  country  and  much  of 
it  close  to  the  sea. 

"  There  will  be  moments  of  superhuman  strug- 
gle," I  argued,  looking  at  the  packed  suitcases — 
mine  now  bulged  leeringly  where  once  the  lock 
had  held  it — "  but  shall  we  be  conquered  by  these 
lendings?  " 

"Think  of  what  our  ancestors  along  this  very 
shore  surmounted,"  Sister  contributed.  "  I  wish 
there  was  a  good  strong  ancestor  with  us  this  min- 
ute," she  added,  hefting  her  bag  deliberately. 
"  But  come  on,  we'll  do  it." 

And  we  did.  Or  at  least,  we  might  have  car- 
ried those  things  from  one  car  to  another  on  that 
trip  had  it  been  taken  under  the  guidance  of  the 
ordinary  car  conductor.  But  it  wasn't.  Once 
again  the  New  Englander  proved  himself  gallant 
as  he  was  strong,  and  carted  our  baggage  for  us 

+  59-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

wherever  a  portage  occurred — all  except  one,  and 
of  that  more  later. 

Part  of  the  way  the  car  follows  the  highroad,  at 
others  it  goes  an  independent  course  straight 
through  the  woods  or  close  beside  the  beaches. 
And  such  beaches,  so  broad  and  clean  and  white, 
with  the  long  white  breakers  shouting  up  and 
sighing  back,  and  the  grey  fog,  for  foggy  it  was, 
mysteriously  moving  above  the  grey  waters. 

"Hark,  where  Poseidon's 

White  racing  horses 
Trample  with  tumult 
The  shelving  seaboard! 

Older  than  Saturn, 

Older  than  Rhea, 
That  mournful  music, 

Falling  and  surging  .    .    .    ." 

Sister's  voice  murmured  the  lovely  lines,  as  the 
trolley,  an  open  car,  waited,  in  its  own  mysteri- 
ous way,  for  something  to  us  unknown. 

The  fog  began  to  roll  away,  the  sea  to  turn  a 
deep  blue,  while  we  waited,  glad  to  be  where  we 
were.  The  car  was  empty  except  for  two  farmers, 
who  sat  on  the  front  seat  and  talked  with  their 
heads  close  together,  perhaps  of  great  matters,  for 
they  too  maintained  an  effect  of  mystery. 

"  I  often  feel  immensely  sorry  for  people,"  Sis- 
-»-6o-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ter  went  on.  "  Think,  for  instance,  of  all  the  peo- 
ple who  have  never  sat  here  and  seen  that  sea  and 
this  beach  and  smelled  the  mingling  of  sea  and 
pine,  and  who  have  never  read  Bliss  Carman's 
'  Songs  of  Sappho,'  and  who,  if  they  had,  would 
never  be  able  to  quote  from  them  so  appropri- 
ately!" 

"  Yet  doubtless  life  seems  good  even  to  them," 
I  ventured. 

"  Think,"  went  on  Sister,  rising  to  her  theme, 
"  think  of  never  having  seen  those  cream-coloured 
streets  of  Portsmouth  with  the  lilacs  leaning  over 
them;  and  the  old  graveyard  beside  St.  John's 
Church,  where  so  many  old  Governors  sleep 
under  that  carpet  of  dandelions,  with  that  deep- 
sweet  bell  ringing  its  slow  notes  year  after  year — 
think  of  knowing  only  Broadway,  in  fact,  while 
all  this  is  and  has  been  going  on  and  on.  ...  I 
wonder  what  the  car  is  waiting  for?  " 

Many  a  fine  old  house  stands  between  Ports- 
mouth and  Newburyport,  surrounded  by  its 
meadows  and  elm  trees.  The  fields  are  better 
cared  for  than  those  in  Maine;  tillers  of  the  soil 
as  well  as  fishers  of  the  sea  have  found  the  country 
good.  At  one  spot,  however,  near  a  new  house, 
we  saw  a  big,  fat  man  with  a  long  cigar  between 
his  lips  standing  before  a  square  plot  of  ground 
that  had  been  carefully  cultivated  but  was  en- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

tirely  devoid  of  the  slightest  indication  of  growth 
of  any  sort.  He  stood  looking  at  the  bareness  with 
a  composed  courage,  slowly  smoking.  At  last  he 
shook  his  head,  slightly  shrugged,  and  in  a  huge, 
proud  way  turned  his  back  on  the  offending  ex- 
panse. It  was  as  though  he  said:  "It  matters 
not!  Man  is  stronger  than  Fate.  If  anything 
finally  grows  there,  well.  If  not,  I  shall  remain 
what  I  am,  a  man." 

So  we  left  him,  between  his  small  empty  house 
and  small  empty  garden. 

It  was  when  we  reached  Salisbury,  where  the 
beach  has  sprouted  a  large  number  of  the  wooden 
hotels  and  lunch  places  and  flimsy  shows  and 
sweatered  youths  and  giggling  girls  and  wet  bath- 
ing suits  that  a  beach  accessible  to  a  town  is  sub- 
ject to,  that  we  were  left  to  handle  our  own  bag- 
gage. We  had  to  lug  those  bags  from  one  car 
to  another,  open  cars  with  the  highest  steps  I  ever 
encountered.  We  tried  one  or  two  methods  un- 
successfully, such  as  stepping  up  with  the  burden 
firmly  grasped,  or  heaving  the  thing  ahead  of  us. 
Finally  we  solved  the  difficulty  by  Sister's  climb- 
ing and  getting  a  grip  on  one  of  them,  while  I 
hoisted  from  below.  First  hers  and  then  mine, 
and  as  we  sank  to  the  seat,  a  cheer  burst  from  a 
group  of  youthful  man-and-womanhood  that  had 
been  looking  on. 

-2-62-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  Flannelled  fools  and  blankety  oafs,"  I  mut- 
tered, exceeding  bitter. 

"  We  deserved  three  rousing  cheers,"  Sister  as- 
serted, "  so  why  rage?  " 

"  I  hate  being  mistaken  for  the  powerful  Ka- 
trinka,"  I  confessed. 

"  You  couldn't  be  ..." 

"  Car  ahead  for  Newburyport! "  cried  the 
conductor. 

We  looked  at  each  other.  And  then,  improb- 
ably splendid  as  it  seems,  we  laughed. 

Later  on  we  discovered  that  it  was  a  habit  in 
Massachusetts  to  get  you  settled  in  one  car,  only 
to  watch  you  change.  Especially  in  the  trains; 
the  simple  device  of  hanging  a  sign  on  the  car  tell- 
ing what  station  it  goes  to  has  never  occurred  to 
the  Massachusetts  mind.  And  apparently  every 
train  bursts  apart  soon  after  leaving  its  starting 
point,  scattering  car  by  car.  You  ask,  in  Boston's 
North  Station,  for  the  train  to  Marblehead.  It  is 
pointed  out  to  you,  you  get  in  together  with  an  im- 
mense commuting  crowd,  find  a  seat  with  diffi- 
culty, place  your  bags  and  bundles  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, the  train  starts,  and  presently  the  brake- 
man  goes  shouting  through  that  the  car  ahead  or 
the  car  behind  or  the  car  in  the  middle,  any  but 
the  car  you  are  in,  is  the  sole  one  that  will  reach 
Marblehead.  So  you  struggle  and  shove  your  way 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

to  that  particular  car,  contending  against  other 
passengers  who  are  endeavouring  to  get  out  of  the 
Marblehead  car  and  find  one  to  Lynn  or  some 
other  place. 

One  wonders ! 

Somehow  we  got  those  suitcases  shifted,  and 
were  on  our  way  again.  Luckily  a  flying  machine, 
landing  on  the  beach,  had  drawn  our  gallery  away, 
and  we  performed  the  operation  in  comparative 
seclusion. 

Any  one  who  stops  anywhere  but  in  the  Wolfe 
Tavern  at  Newburyport  is  making  a  vast  mistake. 
Moreover,  he  or  she  is  probably  doing  an  impos- 
sible thing,  for  that  delightful  and  ancient  place 
appears  to  be  the  only  hostelry  in  the  town.  It  is 
amply  sufficient. 

There  seems  always  to  have  been  a  Wolfe 
Tavern  at  Newburyport,  but  the  first  one,  opened 
in  1762  by  William  Davenport,  who  had  served 
under  Wolfe  in  the  campaign  of  Quebec,  and 
loved  him  as  a  hero,  was  swept  away  by  fire  when 
a  conflagration  in  1811  burned  up  the  larger  part 
of  the  business  section  of  the  town.  This  trial  by 
fire  was  common  to  the  wooden-built  towns  of 
New  England,  with  scarcely  any  protection  worth 
the  name,  and  many  a  fine  old  house  and  inn  and 
church  is  lost  to  us  because  of  it.  Salem,  only  a 
few  years  ago,  showed  what  headway  flames  can 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

get  even  to-day,  and  back  in  the  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  there  wasn't  much  to  do  but 
look  on,  once  the  flames  had  started. 

In  the  old  days  Washington  and  State  streets, 
on  the  corner  of  which  the  present  tavern,  rebuilt 
in  1814,  stands,  were  known  as  Threadneedle  and 
Fish.  One  can  but  wish  that  the  patriotism  of 
our  forefathers  had  not  so  often  prompted  them 
to  rename  their  streets  and  squares;  the  result  be- 
ing that  wherever  you  go  in  New  England  you  are 
apparently  always  walking  on  the  same  street  or 
two,  and  that  you  can  safely  depend  on  finding 
yourself  lodged  on  Washington,  State,  or  Congress 
Street  whatever  town  you  stop  in. 

There  are  no  elevators  in  the  Wolfe,  and  if 
there  were  they  could  hardly  be  used,  for  the  place 
is  as  low  and  rambling  as  some  old  inn  in  France 
or  England.  We  walked  up  a  crooked  stair  that 
took  an  unexpected  twist  and  left  you  in  a  long, 
narrow  passage.  This  went  on  happily,  musing 
to  itself  and  not  particularly  marking  its  direc- 
tion, stumbling  up  or  down  a  few  steps  once  in 
awhile,  until  it  ended  in  two  enchanting  rooms 
with  a  bath  between,  low-ceilinged,  charmingly 
old-fashioned  and  cosy,  with  an  outlook  on  the 
tree-bordered  street  and  across  to  the  spire  of  a 
church,  airy,  white,  lofty,  the  loveliest  wooden 
spire  we  had  ever  seen.  We  discovered  later  that 

-1-65-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

it  belonged  to  the  Unitarian  Church,  and  that  the 
entire  fagade,  with  beautiful  pilasters  and  a  per- 
fectly proportioned  entrance,  was  as  fine  an  ex- 
ample of  Colonial  church  architecture  as  can  be 
found. 

Back  in  1765  the  first  Wolfe  Tavern  was  notable 
for  its  punches  and  toddies,  as  well  as  for  the 
worthies  who  drank  and  paid  for  them.  There 
is  still  an  old  bill  in  the  possession  of  a  lineal 
descendant  of  William  Davenport  in  which  a 
notable  series  of  double  bowls  of  punch,  of  mug 
flips,  of  egg  punches  and  what  not,  ending  with  a 
"  breakfast  of  coffee  for  the  Sd  Company,"  total 
the  imposing  sum  of  £59  iys.  3d. 

But  when  Sister  and  I  went  down  to  supper 
there  were  no  taproom  boys  running  back  and 
forth  with  mugs  of  ale  or  bowls  of  punch,  for 
Newburyport  is  a  local  option  dry  place. 
We  found  the  supper  none  the  worse  for  that, 
getting  some  excellent  steamed  clams  and  a 
steak  that  Lord  Timothy  Dexter  himself  might 
have  been  glad  to  sit  down  to,  in  the  days 
when  he  was  sitting  down  to  meat  in  the  old 
town. 

And  who  is  Lord  Timothy  Dexter?  You  will 
see  the  old  gentleman  on  postcards  in  the  drug 
stores,  and  on  High  Street  is  his  house,  though 
now  it  is  shorn  of  the  amazing  row  of  statues  that 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

used  to  mark  it.  A  remarkable  old  person,  of 
whom  more  hereafter. 

There  is  something  especially  attractive  in  mak- 
ing your  first  acquaintance  with  a  town  after  sun- 
set. The  shops  look  so  gay,  the  passersby  have  a 
holiday  air,  they  gather  in  groups,  especially  the 
young  men  of  the  place,  and  laugh  and  chatter. 
In  the  home  streets  people  sit  out  on  their  stoops, 
and  the  few  lights  are  reflected  wonderfully  from 
arched  boughs  and  fluttering  leaves,  while  long 
dark  reaches  tempt  you  with  mystery  and  prom- 
ise. Girls  in  white  dresses  flit  by,  a  mother  sings 
to  her  baby  from  an  upper  chamber,  and  some- 
where a  bell  rings  slowly. 

So  we  wandered  idly  in  the  scented  spring  dusk. 
The  young  people  who  work  in  Newburyport's 
factories  are  a  cheerful  type,  to  judge  by  those  we 
saw  in  Market  Square  and  Brown's  Square,  where 
huge  elms  in  double  rows  and  a  breadth  of  grass 
make  a  parklet  on  which  several  of  the  oldest 
houses  and  three  or  four  churches  face,  lending 
their  dignity  to  the  gracious  welcome  of  the  noble 
trees.  Facing  on  this  square  we  found  another 
hotel,  the  Brown,  looking  comfortable  and  sleepy. 
We  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  watched  the  chil- 
dren playing  in  and  out  about  the  statue  of 
William  Lloyd  Garrison,  by  D.  C.  French,  an 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

uninspired  work,  but  looking  its  best  in  the 
shadow.  Garrison  was  born  in  this  town. 

By  devious  ways  we  sauntered  on,  taking  an  up- 
ward direction,  and  presently  found  ourselves  on 
the  Mall,  with  a  pond  in  the  centre  of  a  green 
depression,  the  most  delightful  surprise.  A  ring 
of  fine  elms  circles  this  pond,  that  shone  softly  in 
the  light  of  a  very  few  electric  lamps,  not  too  close 
to  it.  The  ring  of  trees  was  reflected  twig  for 
twig,  and  stars  found  a  mirror  in  the  unruffled 
water.  On  the  farther  side  rises  a  hill,  Old  Burial 
Hill,  and  along  the  roadway  that  edges  the  slope 
are  strung  the  courthouse,  two  schools,  and  the  jail 
in  somewhat  singular  proximity.  The  latter  looks 
like  a  pretty  stone  bungalow  with  a  high  white- 
washed wall  against  which  the  green  of  tree  and 
grass  take  added  charm. 

The  whole  place  was  of  a  peacefulness  that 
touched  you  like  a  spell.  Frogs  croaked  and  in- 
sects chirped,  making  a  fairy  ringing  in  the  air. 
Couples  sauntered  slowly  by  the  margin  of  the 
water  or  sat  under  the  trees  on  the  grass.  Two 
youths  with  a  pocket  flashlight  and  butterfly  net 
were  hunting  moths  along  the  strip  of  shore,  giv- 
ing little  exclamations  of  triumph  and  excitement. 

Newburyport  is  long  and  narrow,  stretched  out 
on  the  bank  of  the  Merrimac  River,  about  three 
miles  from  where  it  joins  the  sea.  You  can  walk 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

from  Water  to  High  Street  in  a  leisurely  fifteen 
minutes,  and  between  the  two  lies  the  town 
proper.  But  take  it  lengthwise  and  you'll  get 
all  the  tramping  you  want.  We  know  because 
we  did  it.  The  river  is  a  fine  one,  growing 
swift  and  strong  as  it  narrows,  rushing  down 
from  New  Hampshire  hills,  crystal-clear  all  the 
way.  Like  all  the  old  seaport  towns,  the  water 
edge  is  the  place  of  its  birth,  the  ground  of 
old  activities  and  vanished  wealth,  now  sleepy, 
picturesque,  and  crumbling.  Once  Newburyport 
sent  out  the  fastest  clipper  ships  that  sailed  blue 
water,  and  through  both  our  wars  with  England 
she  did  a  great  work  in  privateering.  She  was 
fiercely,  passionately  patriotic,  and  her  sons  were 
great  sea  fighters.  Most  of  these  fast  ships  of  hers 
were  built  in  open  yards,  as  the  ruins  show  to-day. 
Some  of  her  wharves  are  busy  now,  but  the  ways 
where  once  the  strong,  slender  hulls  flashed  down 
to  the  water  are  choked  with  seaweed  and  falling 
to  pieces,  and  the  skeletons  of  a  few  ghostly  ships 
that  were  left  to  die  unfinished  shame  our  present- 
day  neglect. 

I  suppose  there  is  a  way  to  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning in  telling  of  a  town,  but  I  have  not  been  able 
to  find  it.  I  have  always  dreaded  a  guide,  and 
Sister  swears  I  would  rather  walk  ten  miles  in 
the  wrong  direction  than  ask  a  question.  But, 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

as  I  was  able  to  convince  her,  there  is  no  wrong 
way  in  a  New  England  town,  and  every  inch  of 
any  ten  miles  is  worth  the  taking. 

We  had  heard  of  a  certain  old  stone  house, 
called  the  "  Garrison  House,"  and  wanted  to  see 
it.  First  we  got  a  map  of  the  town,  thinking  it 
might  be  marked,  or  the  lane  that  was  said  to  lead 
to  it,  but  they  weren't. 

Sister  began  to  play  a  game.  It  consisted  of 
stopping  any  likely-looking  person  we  chanced  to 
meet  and  asking  for  information,  and  of  going  into 
every  druggist  or  news  shop  with  the  same  pur- 
pose. We  drew  blank  after  blank  all  down  State 
Street  to  fascinating  Market  Square,  where  we 
loved  to  linger,  looking  at  the  old  houses  which 
formed  its  irregular  ellipse,  the  Custom  House 
among  them,  and  feeling  ourselves  rather  in  some 
quaint  part  of  London  than  at  home  in  New 
England. 

At  last,  in  Elbow  Lane,  we  found  a  grey-haired 
druggist  who  "  guessed  he  knew  "  what  we  were 
after. 

"  It  used  to  be  called  the  Spencer-Pierce  house, 
and  they  say  as  they  stored  gunpowder  there  in 
the  Indian  days,"  he  told  us.  "  You  can  go  to  it 
from  High  Street,  but  since  you  are  right  here  the 
best  way  is  to  go  along  till  you  get  to  the  Old 
South  Church,  follow  the  car  track  to  the  river, 


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OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  down  along  till  you  pass  the  last  of  the  clam 
shacks.  You'll  see  a  path  across  the  fields  with  a 
lot  of  barns  showing  up,  and  it's  a  step  beyond 
them." 

It  sounded  fairly  plain,  and  we  wanted  to  see 
the  church  too,  and  knew  that  Garrison's  birth- 
place was  close  to  it.  We  were  finding  everything 
at  once!  I  felt  a  great  admiration  for  Sister  well- 
ing in  me. 

The  Old  South,  called  nowadays  the  First  Pres- 
byterian, is  a  large,  rather  shabby  structure  with 
a  good  spire  rising  high  and  slender.  A  little 
crowded  graveyard  is  tucked  in  close  to  one  side. 
But  it  is  not  here  that  Whitefield  lies.  You  must 
enter  into  the  high  and  bare  church,  with  its  fine 
pulpit,  reached  by  a  double  flight  of  curved  stairs 
with  mahogany  railings,  to  find  his  tomb. 

On  this  pulpit  is  the  following  inscription: 

Under  this  Pulpit  are 
Deposited  the  Remains 
of  the  Rev.  Geo.  White- 
field  and  the  Rev.  Jona- 
than Parsons. 

Of  all  the  preachers  of  his  particular  day  White- 
field  was  among  the  most  remarkable.  He  was  a 
follower  of  Wesley,  of  a  most  burning  and  tireless 
eloquence.  He  preached  on  an  average  from  forty 
to  fifty  hours  a  week  for  years  on  end,  and  trav- 

-1-71  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

elled  widely,  coming  to  America  seven  times.  Six 
years  before  his  death,  which  occurred  on  Sep- 
tember 30,  1770,  Wesley  spoke  of  him  as  "  an  old 
man,  fairly  worn  out  in  his  Master's  service." 
Yet,  when  friends  begged  him  to  take  some  slight 
rest,  he  replied,  "  I  would  rather  wear  out  than 
rust  out." 

He  arrived  at  Newburyport,  tired  and  ill,  but 
the  people  thronged  the  house  where  he  was  stop- 
ping, two  doors  from  the  church,  and  he  came  out, 
candle  in  hand,  and  talked  to  them  till  it  had 
burned  down  in  its  socket.  He  was  an  old 
favourite  in  the  town,  where  he  had  often 
preached  before.  He  must  have  been  a  thrilling 
sight,  worn  and  thin,  glowing  with  enthusiasm, 
the  candle  flickering  in  the  wind,  talking  to  the 
silent  crowd.  It  was  his  last  sermon,  for  he  died 
during  the  night. 

Now  he  shares  his  tomb  with  the  famous  Revo- 
lutionary preacher  to  whose  fiery  words  was  due 
the  organisation  of  the  first  volunteer  company  of 
the  Continental  Army,  the  young  men  standing  up 
in  their  pews  and  pledging  themselves  to  the  work. 
The  Old  South  has  seen  great  days.  Now  it  is 
quiet  enough  there,  and  the  preachers  no  longer 
speak,  as  did  Whitefield,  of  their  congregations  as 
"sleeping  on  the  edge  of  eternity  and  stepping 
light-heartedly  over  the  crust  of  hell." 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Almost  adjoining  the  church  is  the  William 
Lloyd  Garrison  house,  a  plain,  small  structure  with 
a  garden.  Here  the  great  Emancipationist  was 
born  in  1805  and  grew  to  manhood.  He  first 
worked  as  a  typesetter  on  the  "  Herald,"  and  then 
set  up  his  own  paper,  "  The  Free  Press,"  with  the 
motto:  Our  Country,  Our  Whole  Country,  Noth- 
ing but  Our  Country. 

Garrison  has  another  claim  to  remembrance 
here  in  his  birth-town,  for  it  was  he  who  dis- 
covered Whittier,  living  not  far  away  at  Haver- 
hill.  The  boy  was  already  writing  poems,  and  his 
sister  sent  one  of  these  to  the  "  Free  Press."  It  was 
published,  and  she  sent  another.  Garrison  recog- 
nised that  there  was  something  real  here,  and  went 
out  to  find  the  poet.  It  happened  that  Whittier 
was  scrambling  under  the  barn  looking  for  eggs, 
and  he  was  routed  out  in  a  dusty  and  most  excited 
state  to  meet  the  editor. 

Years  afterward,  when  all  the  bitterness  of  war 
and  the  days  that  had  preceded  war  was  passed, 
the  town  welcomed  Lloyd  Garrison  back  with  a 
great  celebration  in  the  City  Hall,  and  Whittier 
wrote  for  that  occasion  his  "  Emancipation 
Ode." 

We  wandered  along,  following  the  car  track  to 
the  river,  up  which  a  wind  was  brushing,  blowing 
it  into  dark  wavelets.  It  looked  more  like  a  bay 

-+73*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

than  a  river,  it  was  so  broad  here,  with  the  huge 
mass  of  Half-Tide  Rock  lying  a  thousand  feet 
offshore,  and  far  beyond  the  edge  of  Salisbury. 

This  part  of  town  used  to  be  known  as  Joppa, 
and  here  we  found  the  uneven  row  of  funny  little 
grey  clam  shacks,  bent  with  age  and  weather,  so 
small  that  it  seemed  not  more  than  one  old  man 
could  possibly  find  room  in  any  one  of  them.  Yet 
there  were  unmistakable  children  playing  about 
them,  pursuing  a  diligent  life  in  that  earnest  and 
mysterious  world  of  childhood  which  closes  for  us 
after  the  early  teens.  It  was  a  good  place  for  play. 
Boats  lay  cosily  at  the  roadside  between  the  shacks, 
boats  of  old,  faded  greens  and  blues,  stained  and 
patched,  and  there  were  lobster  pots,  cordage,  nets, 
broken  baskets,  and  long-handled  instruments  fit 
for  vague  uses.  The  water  came  up  to  the  back 
doors,  and  down  there  in  the  mud  the  clams  must 
be  waiting.  The  shacks  looked  hospitable  to  small 
muddy  feet,  their  doors  swung  open  to  the  littlest 
hands.  Two  or  three  old  men,  as  grey  as  their 
homes,  pottered  about,  pipes  between  their  teeth. 
It  was  evidently  a  place  given  over  to  the  chil- 
dren at  both  ends  of  life,  and,  shabby  as  it  was,  had 
a  delightful  air  of  gaiety  and  content. 

We  walked  on  and  on,  the  water  on  one  hand, 
the  broad  fields  on  the  other.  And  the  shacks 
grew  ever  more  intermittent,  till  they  ceased,  as 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

though  too  weary  to  go  on  further  with  us.  We 
felt  a  good  deal  the  same  way,  and  sat  down  among 
the  dandelions  to  consider.  For  there  was  no 
sign  of  a  path,  however  faint,  no  distant  barns, 
nothing. 

Three  little  girls  playing  near  proceeded  to  con- 
sider us. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  them,"  said  Sister,  and  did 
so.  Two  of  the  little  things  instantly  looked  aside, 
feigning  as  it  were  that  they  saw  us  not.  But  the 
oldest  spoke  up  breathlessly: 

"  Yes'm.  You  keep  right  on  to  a  big  high  fence 
and  there's  an  avenoo  acrost  the  fields  and  it  takes 
you  to  the  old  house." 

It  did.  And  glad  we  were  to  have  perse- 
vered. 

This  old  house  was  built  some  time  during  the 
1640'$ — there  are  no  exact  records.  It  is  entirely 
unlike  any  other  house  in  New  England.  Built 
of  granite  and  brick  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
originally  a  Greek  cross,  but  later  the  eastern  end 
was  lengthened,  and  now  the  form  is  Roman.  One 
arm  of  the  cross  makes  the  exquisite  porch  with 
a  high  narrow  niche  over  the  arched  door,  and 
arched  windows,  the  bricks  of  which  it  is  made 
being  bevelled,  while  the  flooring  is  of  square 
tiles.  All  these  were  brought  from  England. 

Bowered  in  mighty  elms  and  hung  with  vines, 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  house  has  a  most  gracious  and  homelike  aspect. 
Part  of  it  is  wooden,  the  gable  and  the  upper 
story  of  the  east  end,  and  this  more  modern  por- 
tion is  known  to  be  over  a  hundred  years  old. 
The  Dutch  door  swings  in  two  parts  on  hinges 
two  feet  long  and  hand-wrought.  The  walls  are 
from  three  to  four  feet  thick,  and  the  powder 
used  to  be  kept  under  the  eaves.  Everything  is 
solid,  kindly,  built  to  endure.  A  house  to  with- 
stand attack,  whether  of  Indian  or  time  or 
tempest. 

A  young  girl  with  flushed  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes,  whom  we  had  disturbed  lying  in  a  hammock 
swung  between  two  of  the  great  elms,  showed  us 
about,  smiling. 

"  It's  a  consumptives'  home,  you  know,"  she 
said,  and  we  saw  that  she  was  come  to  the  ancient 
place  to  get  back  her  young  strength  and  health. 
"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  ' 

It  is.  And  it  holds  a  high  peace,  there  on  its 
rise,  overlooking  the  fair  meadows  and  orchards 
and  the  flashing  river.  Health  ought  to  breathe 
from  that  racy  air  and  float  in  at  the  big,  small- 
paned  windows  with  the  song  of  the  meadow  larks 
and  okalees  that  flute  around  it. 

The  girl  showed  us  the  lane  that  would  take  us 
back  to  High  Street,  a  charming  green  way  be- 
tween blossoming  apple  trees,  overarched  with 

-*-  76  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

elms  and  flowering  chestnuts.  We  reached  its  end 
all  too  soon,  and  turned  back  toward  the  town. 

High  Street  extends  for  some  six  miles,  starting 
from  the  town  line  between  Newburyport  and  old 
Newbury.  Just  a  little  distance  from  the  lane  are 
two  other  old  houses,  the  Toppan  and  the  Ilsey, 
splendid  examples  of  the  farm  type  and  (dating 
from  1670.  As  we  went  on  we  came  to  a  boulder 
commemorating  the  recruiting  of  the  men  for  the 
expedition  against  the  Province  of  Quebec  under 
Benedict  Arnold,  and  called  the  Benedict  Arnold 
Stone. 

Once  again  we  were  on  the  Mall  of  High  Street, 
with  the  pond  below  us,  surrounded  by  its  slop- 
ing green  terraces.  It  is  said  that  all  the  able- 
bodied  men  of  the  town  set  out  one  day  and  made 
and  sodded  this  pretty  slope.  From  the  Court 
House  we  caught  a  glimpse,  down  Green  Street, 
of  the  shining  blue  water. 

"  These  towns  simply  can't  be  content  unless 
they  have  an  eye  on  the  water  every  minute,"  said 
Sister.  "  Churches,  graveyards,  and  the  sea,  those 
were  the  three  necessities." 

There  is  a  fine  statue  of  Washington  by  J.  Q.  A. 
Ward  at  the  head  of  the  Mall.  It  has  both  grace 
and  dignity.  But  we  wanted  to  take  a  look  at  the 
famous  house  where  Dexter  lived,  and  found  it, 
just  beyond  the  viaduct  over  the  railway.  A  fine 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

large  house,  with  a  square  cupola  atop,  standing 
in  grounds  that  are  beautifully  laid  out,  well 
screened  from  the  street  with  trees  and  shrubs. 

There  is  nothing  about  it  now  except  its  great 
size  and  fine  proportions  to  mark  it  from  other  ex- 
cellent examples  of  its  type.  But  when  Lord 
Timothy  owned  it  the  garden  was  crowded  with 
large  statues  on  poles  fifteen  feet  high,  made  by  a 
young  ship  carver,  and  supposed  to  represent  the 
great  ones  of  the  earth  of  all  times.  There  were 
forty  or  more  of  these  statues,  and  also  a  great 
Roman  Arch  with  representations  of  Washing- 
ton, Jefferson,  and  Adams  surmounting  it.  In 
1815,  nine  years  after  Dexter's  death,  these  were 
all,  or  most  of  them,  blown  down  in  a  great  Sep- 
tember gale,  and  were  sold  as  old  junk  for  a  few 
dollars.  He  had  spent  some  fifteen  thousand  in 
their  construction.  His  own  figure  was  conspicu- 
ous among  them,  bearing  the  legend: 

"  I  am  the  first  in  the  East,  the  first  in  the  West, 
and  the  greatest  Philosopher  of  the  Known 
World." 

This  man,  born  in  1743,  who  began  as  a  leather 
dresser  in  Maiden,  led  a  calm  and  hard-working 
life  until  lucky  speculations  in  securities  issued 
during  the  Revolution  made  him  suddenly 
wealthy.  After  that  he  appears  to  have  gone  par- 
tially mad.  He  had  two  children,  a  half-imbecile 

+  78-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

son,  and  a  daughter  who  became  a  drunkard  and 
finally  insane.  He  himself,  tired  of  forty  years 
of  sober  industry,  took  to  wild  excesses,  so  that  his 
wife  left  him,  frightened  away  by  his  drinking 
bouts  and  extravagance,  which  included  firing  off 
an  old  musket  at  any  one  who  irritated  him.  His 
aim  was  poor,  and  no  catastrophe  resulted. 

He  became  best  known  for  his  book,  "  Pickle 
for  the  Knowing  Ones,"  a  farrago  of  non- 
sense, bad  spelling,  and  entire  absence  of  punctua- 
tion. In  a  second  edition  he  met  criticism  on  that 
score  by  adding  a  couple  of  solid  pages  of  punc- 
tuation marks  at  the  end  and  inviting  his  readers 
to  "  peper  and  solt "  as  they  chose. 

High  Street  from  end  to  end  is  remarkable  for 
charm  and  dignity,  even  among  these  old  towns 
so  given  to  fine  streets.  One  splendid  house,  built 
by  the  sturdy  sea-captains  and  traders  of  New- 
buryport's  heyday,  follows  another,  with  old 
churches  dominating  them,  great  trees  sheltering 
them.  On  the  hill  to  the  western  end  the  sentry 
used  to  march  back  and  forth  of  old,  keeping 
watch  lest  the  Indians  rush  out  to  attack  from  the 
forests  beyond.  Now  you  can  go  on,  past  Atkin- 
son Park  with  its  spirited  statue  of  the  "  Boy  of  61  r 
by  Mrs.  Kitson,  and  along  the  boulevard  to  the 
Old  Chain  Bridge  across  the  Merrimac,  a  good 
three-mile  walk. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

But  we  left  that  for  another  day,  and  idled 
among  the  ancient  stones  of  the  Burying  Hill,  as 
it  is  called.  The  grass  grew  tall,  with  paths 
tramped  haphazard  through  it,  and  the  trees  were 
thick  and  old. 

We  found  a  whole  group  of  French  names, 
from  Guadeloupe  and  San  Domingo,  dating  from 
1772.  Monsieur  this  and  Monsieur  that,  names 
half  obliterated.  It  seemed  a  sad,  neglected  cor- 
ner where  these  foreigners  lay,  and  we  wondered 
what  had  brought  them  there  to  die  so  soon,  for 
all  those  whose  dates  we  could  decipher  were 
young. 

There  were  many  baby  graves,  most  of  them 
with  the  winged  cherub  that  looks  so  like  a  flying 
skull.  It  was  difficult  for  a  Puritan  hand  to  lend 
even  a  cherub  joy  and  beauty. 

Bells  tolled  while  we  were  wandering  here,  and 
we  found  that  evening  was  falling  softly.  We 
came  down  the  hill  toward  our  tavern,  well  con- 
tent with  the  quiet  old  city.  It  held  enchantment 
wherever  you  turned. 

To  be  sure,  Newburyport  to-day  seems  to  care 
precious  little  about  its  past.  Nobody  knows  any- 
thing. You  ask,  and  there  are  no  replies.  The 
city  is  busy  in  a  quiet  effective  way  with  its  manu- 
factories, and  has  no  time  to  waste  over  what  its 
forebears  did.  There  seems  to  be  no  little  guide- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

book  to  tell  you  anything,  the  map  is  of  the  barest. 
You  run  across  things  unexpectedly. 

There  is  one  thing  you  do  hear  about,  it  is  even 
marked  on  the  cars.  The  Old  Chain  Bridge.  But 
when  you  get  to  it,  as  we  did,  one  lovely  morning, 
it  is  not  old  nor  chain,  it's  just  a  modern  bridge, 
like  thousands  of  bridges  all  over  the  country. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  know  yet  that  the  old 
chain  bridge  has  vanished,"  I  remarked,  as  we 
watched  a  lady  get  off  the  car  that  had  brought 
us.  She  had  asked  the  conductor  to  let  her  off 
when  she  reached  the  old  bridge. 

"  Here  you  are,  lady,"  he  said,  and  we  all  got 
off.  The  lady  looked  appraisingly  at  the  steel  and 
concrete  structure  with  entire  satisfaction,  got  into 
another  car  which  was  returning  to  the  city,  and 
disappeared. 

The  bridge  is  in  two  sections,  separated  by  Deer 
Island,  on  which  is  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford's 
home,  hidden  from  the  road  by  groves  of  mag- 
nificent pines.  We  were  bewitched  by  the  rush- 
ing river,  charging  past  grey  rocks  and  green 
sedges,  with  the  pines  crowding  to  its  very  edge 
and  the  cliffs  hanging  over  it.  The  Spofford  house 
is  an  old  one,  and  when  Mr.  Spofford  bought  it 
he  turned  it  part  way  round,  so  that  now  it  faces 
across  the  river,  overlooking  a  wide  expanse  of 
wood  and  granite  cliff  and  running  water.  It  is 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

bowered  deep  in  green  and  set  solidly  down  upon 
its  headland: 

"Set  like  an  eagle's  nest 
Among  the  island's  immemorial  pines, 
Crowning  the  crag  on  which  the  sunset  breaks 
Its  last  red  arrow  .    .    .    ." 

"  It  looks  like  the  fulfilment  of  a  dream,"  said 
Sister,  as,  standing  under  the  murmuring  pines, 
the  soft  brown  carpet  sweet  to  our  feet,  we  looked 
upon  it.  "  It  is  the  way  you  want  a  house  to  be, 
and  where  it  must  be.  It's  one  of  those  houses  that 
makes  you  feel  as  if  it  were  the  only  one  on  earth." 

It  was  a  difficult  place  to  get  away  from.  We 
crossed  to  the  mainland,  and  clambered  up  the 
banks,  stopping  to  paddle  a  while  in  the  clear 
water,  that  came  so  cold  and  fresh  straight  from 
New  Hampshire's  hills.  We  meant  to  find  the 
cave  called  the  Devil's  Den,  but  failed,  and  never 
did  see  it,  nor,  so  far  as  we  could  discover,  has' 
any  one  living  in  the  town.  But  it  would  take 
months,  not  days,  to  exhaust  Newburyport,  and 
months  we  did  not  have. 

Going  back  we  stopped  to  look  at  the  old  ship- 
yards. It  was  the  Embargo  Act  that  ruined  New- 
buryport's  shipbuilding,  and  Madison  was  a 
hated  name  there  for  years. 

Close  by  the  Wolfe  Tavern  is  the  Public  Li- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

brary,  once  the  Tracy  House,  built  in  1771  by 
Patrick  Tracy  for  his  son  Nathaniel.  Here,  in 
the  great  wood-panelled  rooms,  both  Washington 
and  Lafayette  were  entertained.  There  is  an  in- 
teresting Marine  Library  in  the  building  and  much 
historical  material. 

We  managed  to  get  a  glimpse  into  the  Unitarian 
Church,  whose  spire  we  admired  afresh  every  time 
we  saw  it,  pointing  up  among  the  trees.  Here 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  preached  a  short 
time  in  1847,  but  his  ideas  were  too  new  and  dis- 
turbing for  the  respectable  folk  of  the  town,  and 
he  was  asked  to  leave.  The  pulpit  is  reached  by  a 
double  stairway,  and  is  so  high  that  when  the  min- 
ister sat  down  he  disappeared  from  all  but  the 
sight  of  God.  The  church  was  built  in  1801,  and 
belongs  to  the  Wren  type. 

The  leisurely  spirit  of  the  place  gets  into  you, 
and  Sister  and  I  lost  whatever  of  New  York  hurry 
had  been  left  in  us  during  the  first  days  of  our 
stay.  Suddenly  we  realised  that  we  must  be  far- 
ing on,  for  other  towns  were  beckoning. 

"  But  we've  got  to  go  to  Old  Town  first,  and 
see  the  Settlers'  Stone  and  Parker  River  Bridge," 
I  announced. 

"  You  have  a  singular  passion  for  rocks,"  Sis- 
ter said.  "  A  rock  with  a  tablet  or  inscription  is 
like  a  red  flag  to  you." 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

We  decided  to  walk  it,  as  it  was  less  than  five 
miles,  and  by  this  time  we  sniffed  at  such  a  dis- 
tance. Much  of  it  was  along  High  Street,  always 
a  joy,  and  then  we  went  on,  past  orchards  and  fine 
farms,  with  red-cheeked  ploughboys,  like  those 
you  meet  in  English  lanes,  whistling  over  their 
work.  They  were  young  and  they  were  jolly,  and 
we  enjoyed  stopping  and  asking  them  how  much 
farther  it  was. 

"Why,  it's  all  along  of  four  miles  .  .  .  you 
ain't  a-goin'  to  walk  it?  " 

"  When  is  the  car  due?  " 

"  These  cars  don't  run  more'n  about  twice  a  day, 
far's  I  ever  seen.  Maybe  this  is  the  time,  but  I 
couldn't  say." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Settlers'  Stone?  " 

"What's  that?" 

But  we  never  told. 

At  the  crossroads  and  common  of  old  Newbury 
there  is  a  shaft  with  a  bronze  ship  atop,  sailing 
merrily.  This  shaft  is  dedicated  to  the  first  settlers. 
Close  to  it  an  old  house  abuts  on  the  road.  A  sign 
announces  that  it  was  built  in  1778,  and  kept, 
by  Samuel  Seddon,  to  be  used  for  the  refresh- 
ment of  man  and  beast  going  to  Parker  River. 
It  was  shut  now,  however,  to  our  regret,  for 
we  could  have  done  nicely  with  some  refresh- 
ment. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

A  road  to  the  left  brought  us  somewhat  sandily 
to  the  Stone  we  were  in  seach  of.  Here  it  was  that 
the  first  settlers,  a  hardy  band  under  the  leadership 
of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Parker,  from  Newbury,  Eng- 
land, landed  in  1635. 

Extremes  have  met  here,  for  now  the  place  is 
covered  with  a  mushroom  growth  of  very  new  and 
small  bungalows,  still  empty,  but  destined  for  sum- 
mer transients. 

We  returned  to  the  bronze  ship  and  waited  be- 
side it,  seated  on  the  soft  grass,  for  the  seldom  run- 
ning car. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  a  model  of  the  famous  Dread- 
naught,"  I  said.  We  had  found  the  clipper  ship 
portrayed  on  a  postcard,  with  the  inscription  run- 
ning in  this  wise: 

"  She  scudded  in  celebrity  in  1859  by  making 
three  thousand  miles  from  Sandy  Hook  to  Rock 
Light,  Liverpool,  in  13  days,  8  hours.  Made  a 
voyage  never  equalled  in  swiftness  to  Eng- 
land." 

The  ship  was  indeed  famous  on  all  the  seas, 
wherever  a  sailor  met  a  mate,  or  an  anchor  was 
dropped  or  weighed  to  the  sound  of  a  seaman's 
chantey.  They  had  nicknames  for  her,  such  as 
"The  Flying  Dutchman"  and  "The  Wild  Boat 
of  the  Atlantic."  Wherever  she  went  she  could 
be  instantly  identified  by  the  large  red  cross 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

painted  on  her  foretopsail.    She  had  been  bought 
in  New  York  for  the  Liverpool  trade: 

"  A  saucy,  wild  packet,  a  packet  of  fame, 
She    belongs    to   New    York,   and   the   Dread- 
naught's  her  name.   ..." 

So  they  sang  of  her. 

"  I  think  it's  just  as  well  we  leave  to-morrow 
morning,"  declared  Sister,  "  for  I'm  getting  so  at- 
tached to  this  place  that  if  I  stayed  on  much  longer 
I  wouldn't  know  how  to  get  away.  Just  think  of 
no  more  dreamy  evenings  up  on  the  Mall,  or 
lingering  round  Market  Square  with  those  parti- 
coloured old  buildings  staring  comfortably  at  us. 
Think  of  not  being  able  to  see  the  spire  among 
the  trees,  of  not  getting  lost  in  the  intricate  ways 
of  the  Wolfe  Tavern.  Think  of  the  clam  shacks 
and  the  river  knowing  us  no  more.  .  .  .  ' 

"  Stop  it,  or  I'll  be  weeping  aloud,"  I  inter- 
rupted. "  I  remember  that  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  in  '  Elsie  Venner,'  speaks  of  Portland, 
Portsmouth,  and  Newburyport  as  '  incomparably 
the  most  interesting  places  of  their  size  in  any  of 
the  three  northernmost  New  England  States.'  It's 
a  calm,  unemotional  statement,  and  doesn't  sat- 
isfy me." 

:<  Wait  till  you  see  the  rest,"  Sister  optimistically 
announced.  "  Where  do  we  go  next?  " 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  Salem.  But  we  ought  to  have  second-sight 
really  to  see  Salem." 

As  we  rode  back  in  the  car,  with  the  city  show- 
ing between  its  trees,  Sister  told  me  I  ought  to 
hunt  out  something  Whittier  had  written  about 
Newburyport.  We  got  him  in  the  library,  and 
here  are  the  stanzas: 

"  Its  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  on  the  harbour-bar." 


Salem 


CHAPTER  IV 

Salem 

N  spite  of  all  the  hustle  and  noise  that 
greet  you  as  you  get  out  at  the  stone 
station,  open  at  both  ends,  through  which 
all  trains  to  and  from  Salem  run,  and 
make  your  way  to  the  square  where  Essex  and 
Washington  streets  cross,  arriving  at  Salem  is  al- 
ways to  me  like  moving  into  a  dream. 

In  spite  of  its  insistent  present  there  is  so  much 
of  the  past  remaining.  Here  it  is  an  old  house  full 
of  memories,  there  a  sudden  glimpse  of  bygone 
fashions  and  personalities  still  real  and  vital.  For 
instance,  as  Sister  and  I  strolled  down  some  little 
side  street,  where  the  houses  must  have  stood  these 
hundred  years,  we  saw  a  little  old  lady,  with  a 
Paisley  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and  a  bonnet  on 
her  head,  unlatch  a  gate  that  opened  on  a  tessellated 
brick  walk,  and  go  trotting  up  to  the  pilastered 
front  door.  She  pulled  the  bell,  and  another  old 
lady,  who  could  be  seen  sewing  in  the  front  room 
close  to  the  window,  dropped  her  work,  perked 
her  head,  on  which  was  a  cap,  nodded  at  her  caller, 
and  got  to  her  feet  to  admit  her. 

-+•91  -*-. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

It  was  the  merest  trifle,  yet  it  was  eloquent  of 
other  days,  and  put  you  in  the  mood  of  another 
century,  which  is  what  Salem  always  does,  for  me 
at  least. 

Salem  was  not  new  to  either  of  us,  but  it  was  the 
first  time  we  had  ever  come  there  with  the  avowed 
purpose  of  sightseeing.  We  were  not  alone.  In 
the  other  towns  where  we  had  been  there  had  been 
no  sign  of  any  other  spectators.  The  people  were 
all  going  about  their  daily  affairs  amid  surround- 
ings perfectly  familiar  to  them.  But  here  not  only 
was  the  tourist  observable,  but  also  the  native  with 
his  eye  out  for  him. 

Several  breathless  small  boys,  seeing  that  we 
were  bent  on  landmarks,  rushed  up,  pattering 
words  hastily: 

"  Show  you  Hawthorne's  birthplace  and  House- 
of-Seven-Gables?" 

We  discouraged  them,  and  they  drew  away  smil- 
ing at  each  other  as  much  as  to  say,  "  The  joke 
hasn't  come  off  this  time."  But  they  or  others  hung 
about  in  the  offing,  occasionally  shooting  out  a 
sputter  of  would-be  information. 

We  walked  down  Union  Street  to  number  27, 
the  house  where  Hawthorne  was  born,  though 
there  is  no  mark  or  tablet  upon  it  to  show  the  vis- 
itor that  this  is  the  place.  We  saw  an  elderly  man 
sternly  regarding  another  house,  in  fact,  with  that 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

look  of  having  run  his  prey  to  earth  which  so  often 
marks  the  face  of  the  sightseer,  busy  checking  off 
his  sights. 

The  northwest  chamber  on  the  second  story  in 
this  shabby,  hip-roofed  house  is  the  one  where  the 
event  occurred  that  made  the  house  famous.  We 
made  no  attempt  to  enter,  though  we  had  been  told 
that  the  owner,  "  seeing  who  we  were,"  would 
probably  permit  us  to  do  so.  Hawthorne  lived  in 
this  house  until  he  was  four,  when  the  family 
moved  to  the  house  on  Herbert  Street,  whose  rear 
joins  the  birthplace.  It  is  that  house  which  is 
really  connected  with  the  author's  youthful  dreams 
and  plans.  The  room  in  the  southwest  corner 
from  which  there  is  an  outlook  over  the  birth 
house  was  Hawthorne's,  and  it  is  here  that  he 
speaks  of  having  wasted  so  many  hours  of  his 
lonely  youth.  It  was  here  that  he  began  writing — 
here,  he  tells  us,  that  FAME  was  won. 

So  there  we  stood,  looking  at  the  two  old  houses, 
now  little  more  than  tenements  and  'never  fairy 
palaces.  The  old  lady  in  the  Paisley  shawl  had 
brought  Hawthorne  far  closer  to  us  than  did  these 
houses  where  he  had  lived.  Such  are  the  vagaries 
of  the  human  temperament! 

The  house  at  the  foot  of  Turner  Street,  called 
the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  probably  because 
it  seems  just  as  well  to  have  a  house  of  that  name 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

in  Salem,  for  the  house  of  the  romance  is  an  inven- 
tion of  the  author,  this  house,  more  living  and 
close  to  the  water  as  it  is,  has  not  shouldered  Haw- 
thorne's memory  away  as  have  the  neglected 
and  decaying  places  that  really  were  home  to 
him. 

The  place,  in  Hawthorne's  day,  belonged  ;to 
relatives  of  ours,  the  Ingersolls,  and  he  spent  many 
hours  here.  The  quaint,  six-gabled  structure  is  de- 
lightfully situated.  The  green  garden,  full  of 
shade  from  the  big  trees,  runs  down  to  the  tide, 
and  the  sea  fragrance  breathes  over  it.  White  cur- 
tains float  at  the  windows,  and  time  halts  here 
pleasantly,  finding  things  pretty  much  as  they  were 
almost  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  house  abuts  side- 
ways on  the  street,  where  the  door  now  leads  into 
a  little  tea  and  curio  shop,  called  Hepzibah's  Shop. 
Once  again  we  did  not  enter.  If  you  crowd  memo- 
ries and  impressions  too  closely  they  are  apt  to  flee 
you  forever. 

We  thought  it  as  well  to  go  from  this  house  to 
the  one  where  Hawthorne  lived  during  his  work 
at  the  Custom  House,  and  where  he  wrote  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter."  The  big  three-story  building  with 
the  trees  before  it  also  stands  end-on  to  the  street, 
Mall  Street,  and  is  said  to  be  practically  as  it  was 
when  the  Hawthornes  left  it  in  1850  to  go  to 
Lenox.  The  street  is  a  pleasant  one,  old  and  quiet, 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  the  upstair  study  where  the  book  was  written 
had  a  gentle  and  attractive  outlook. 

Another  house  with  which  the  name  is  identified 
is  the  one  on  Charter  Street  adjoining  Burying 
Point,  the  oldest  graveyard  in  Salem,  where  the 
Peabodys  lived.  Here  Hawthorne  met  and  loved 
his  future  wife.  Square,  three-storied,  built  of 
wood,  with  a  small  enclosed  porch,  the  place  is  un- 
changed to  this  day.  It  has  a  look  of  mystery  and 
withdrawal,  its  long  association  with  the  neigh- 
bouring graves  having,  possibly,  given  it  a  cer- 
tain contempt  for  life. 

We  wandered  long  in  the  green  old  burying- 
ground,  shaded  by  fine  trees,  studying  the  head- 
stones. The  oldest  are  nearest  the  Peabody  house, 
and  here  I  found  the  one  so  curiously  inscribed: 

Mr.  Nathanael  Mather 
Deed.  October  Ye  17 

1688 

An  Aged  Person  that 
Had  been  but  Nineteen 
Winters  in  this  World. 

At  the  top  was  a  carving  that  looked  far  more 
like  a  flying  skull  than  a  winged  cherub. 

There  are  very  old  stones  in  this  ancient  spot, 
the  oldest  being  that  over  whatever  may  be  left 
of  one  Doraty,  wife  to  Philip  Cromwell,  dating 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

from  1673.  Here  an  ancestor  of  ours,  the  famous 
or  infamous  "  Witch  Judge,"  Col.  John  Haw- 
thorne, left  what  was  earthly  of  him.  Governor 
Bradstreet's  tomb  is  here,  on  the  higher  ground, 
but  not  a  letter  of  the  inscription  remains. 

The  place  is,  indeed,  crowded  with  names  that 
have  meant  much  in  the  history  of  Massachusetts, 
and  here  is  the  solitary  gravestone  witnessing  to  the 
last  sleep  of  a  passenger  in  the  Mayflower  that  time 
has  spared.  The  name  of  this  isolated  being  is 
Captain  Richard  Moore,  but  we  sought  the  stone 
in  vain. 

A  bronze  tablet  has  been  placed  by  the  city  on 
the  iron  fence,  with  a  satisfactory  inscription.  It 
is  one  of  the  few  places  in  Salem  where  a  tablet 
has  been  put  on  something  remaining.  Mostly 
they  are  mere  indications  of  what  has  been. 

This  we  found  particularly  so  in  Town  House 
Square,  the  heart  of  Salem's  business  life,  where 
once  the  Town  Pump  stood.  Up  to  now  we  had 
always  passed  through  the  Square  intent  on  getting 
somewhere  else,  but  now  we  paused  to  look  up 
whatever  was  worthy  of  the  effort. 

The  printed  guide  told  us  that  on  the  church  at 
one  corner  of  the  Square  was  a  tablet  telling  a 
lot  of  history,  and  we  proposed  to  study  it. 

The  trouble  however  was  that,  so  far  as  we  could 
see,  there  was  no  church  anywhere  on  the  Square. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  Come  now,"  said  Sister,  "  we  ought  to  be  able 
to  recognize  a  church,  even  if  it  hasn't  got  a  Wren 
spire.  Let  nothing  escape  you  on  this  side,  and  I'll 
study  the  opposite  one." 

No  use.  We  could  not  see  that  church.  The 
Square  is  a  small  affair,  nothing  more  than  the 
intersection  of  two  streets.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  a  church  could  play  hide  and  seek  in  so  cir- 
cumscribed a  spot. 

Yet,  since  the  guide  said  there  was  a  church, 
we  rather  hated  to  go  up  to  any  one  of  the  busy 
passers  and  ask  to  have  him  point  it  out  to  us. 
Somehow  you  feel  as  though  there  were  something 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  not  knowing  a  church  when 
you  see  it. 

Finally  we  gave  up,  and  Sister  went  into  the 
drug  store  that  occupied  one  corner  to  get  the 
proper  information. 

"  Ask  if  it's  the  church,"  I  begged. 

It  wasn't,  but  it  might  just  as  well  have  been, 
for  the  so-called  church  proved  to  be  nothing  more 
than  a  red  brick  and  very  ugly  business  building 
with  shops  and  offices.  On  it  we  found  the  bronze 
tablets  promised.  Perhaps  somewhere  in  that 
commercial  structure  there  is  a  church,  but  it  gives 
at  least  no  outward  sign  of  the  fact. 

The  Square  is  entirely  commonplace  and  unin- 
teresting now,  nothing  of  its  old  grandeur  or 

•+97"1- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

beauty  remaining.  The  famous  Town  Hall,  where 
so  much  history  was  written  by  the  acts  of  men,  has 
vanished,  followed,  or  perhaps  preceded,  by  the 
fine  old  houses  once  built  by  planter  and  mer- 
chant and  preacher.  Roger  Williams  had  lived 
in  one  of  these  long-gone  houses,  as  had  the 
Rev.  Francis  Higginson,  ancestor  to  the  famous 
family. 

But  looking  at  bronze  tablets  that  say  that  at 
such  and  such  a  date  something  that  isn't  here  now 
once  was  here  is  an  occupation  that  speedily  and 
decidedly  palls.  After  making  out  the  circular 
stone  with  an  H  in  the  centre  that  marks  the  site 
of  the  old  pump,  we  left  the  Square  to  its  modern 
ugliness,  and  walked  away  to  the  real  centre  of 
old  Salem,  so  far  as  present  appearances  go,  the 
streets  leading  into  the  Common,  or  Washington 
Square,  where  one  fine  old  house  after  another 
dominates  its  pretty  garden,  and  shows  the  world 
an  exquisite  doorway  or  pillared  porch,  a  stately 
fagade  and  serene  proportions. 

This  Square  used  to  be  a  mixture  of  marsh  and 
hill,  and  has  always  been  common  property.  In 
old  days  the  cows  belonging  to  the  various  mem- 
bers of  the  community  who  kept  cows  used  to  be 
driven  here  nightly  from  their  pasturage  on  the 
Neck,  to  be  each  one  claimed  and  led  away  to  the 
milking.  In  the  mornings  the  owners  brought 


. 


rM^^-.v^lF^—  /F^P 
^?j®s&$$.&i!5Li;  H  -my/M^ 


•  ^^>A  ' -;;^S: •   II ! 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

them  back  and  the  cowherds  led  them  out  again 
to  their  rocky  fields. 

Now  it  is  a  broad,  grassy  plain,  surrounded  by 
hundred-year-old  elms.  On  the  north  side  of  the 
Square  at  the  point  where  Winter  Street  touches 
it  is  a  huge  granite  boulder,  brought  from  the 
Neck  to  commemorate  the  heroism  of  the  23d 
Regiment  of  Volunteers  in  the  Civil  War.  It  is 
an  impressive  and  handsome  rock,  appropriately 
inscribed,  and  a  vast  advance  over  the  usual  badly 
carved  figure  of  a  galvanised-looking  young  man 
holding  a  rifle. 

A  few  doors  back  on  Winter,  W.  W.  Story  was 
born,  in  the  house  built  by  his  father,  Judge  Joseph 
Story.  It  is  a  charming  house,  fit  place  for  an 
artist  to  begin  his  work  of  observing  beauty.  La- 
fayette, who  seems  to  have  had  a  very  social  time 
of  it  in  New  England,  was  entertained  here  by 
the  Judge. 

You  can  easily  spend  a  couple  of  days  looking 
up  the  houses  where  famous  men  were  born  in  this 
solid  old  city.  They  seem  to  have  had  an  extraor- 
dinary hankering  for  the  place.  Not  but  what 
Salem  must  have  been  a  particularly  beautiful 
town  in  the  days  when  these  notable  births  were 
most  common.  It  is  now,  in  many  spots,  though 
it  has  lost  much  of  its  looks  with  advancing  age. 

-i- 99-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

For,  oddly  enough,  as  it  gets  older  it  becomes 
younger,  and  the  youth  is  not  an  improvement. 

Salem,  more  perhaps  than  any  other  New  Eng- 
land town,  is  a  series  of  pasts.  She  was  settled 
only  a  few  years  after  Plymouth,  beginning  as 
Naumkeag,  a  farm  settlement.  Before  long  she 
developed  into  the  grimmest  of  Puritan  strong- 
holds, overlooking  no  excess  of  zeal  in  the  matter 
of  making  life  miserable  on  this  earth,  at  any  rate, 
whatever  it  might  be  in  the  next. 

Then  came  her  witch  era,  and  though  she  has 
been  maligned  in  the  accusation  that  she  burned 
anybody,  she  managed  to  hang  nineteen  poor  souls 
whose  chief  fault  appears  to  have  been  a  lack  of 
geniality  and  personal  charm.  At  the  last  of  the 
executions,  when  a  group  of  eight  were  hanged, 
the  Reverend  Nicholas  Noyes,  a  Salem  preacher, 
looking  with  sorrow  upon  the  swinging  bodies, 
remarked : 

"  What  a  sad  thing  it  is  to  see  eight  firebrands 
of  Hell  hanging  there." 

Perhaps.  It  was  even  sadder  to  be  hanging 
there. 

It  was  after  the  Revolution  that  Salem  began 
her  next  past,  the  great  period  of  her  far-flung 
trading  line,  when  her  ships  found  ports  known 
to  no  other  vessels  from  America,  and  when,  in 
crowded  Eastern  harbours,  where  the  temple  bells 
-*-  ioo-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  anything  but  a  Puritan  faith  chimed  across  the 
waters,  it  was  Salem,  not  New  York,  nor  Boston, 
nor  Philadelphia,  that  was  supposed  to  be  the 
great  city  of  the  West. 

Down  along  Derby  Street,  and  the  short  streets 
that  reach  from  it  to  the  water,  where  the  old  docks 
are  still  to  be  found,  and  the  wooden  buildings  of 
seafaring  men  still  stand,  you  get  a  faint  echo  of 
this  past,  but  it  is  very  faint.  All  the  spicy  wealth 
of  the  East,  rich  cargoes.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  remember,"  I  asked  Sister,  "  that  Car- 
goes thing  of  John  Masefield?  It  must  have  fitted 
here  once." 

"  Bits  of  it.  Those  lines  that  tell  about  sandal- 
wood,  cedar  wood,  and  sweet  white  wine — no,  this 
is  the  stanza: 

"  Wit h  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts. 
Topazes  and  cinnamon  and  gold  moidores  .  .  ." 

or  maybe  this : 

"Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March 

days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 
Road-rails,  pig  lead, 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays/' 

"  Sort  of  an  epitome  of  yesterday  and  to-day, 
isn't  it?  "  was  my  contribution,  as  we  watched  some 

-»- 101  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

flatboats  from  Boston,  perhaps,  unloading  some- 
thing dingy  on  the  half-deserted  dock. 

One  day  the  ship  America,  homing  from  Ben- 
gal, brought  a  strange  and  monstrous  beast  into 
Salem  town.  Since  the  ice  buried  the  mastodon  on 
this  continent,  its  like  had  never  been  seen  on 
American  shores.  It  was  an  elephant.  It  must 
have  created  a  sensation  even  bigger  than  itself  as 
it  strolled  up  Derby  Street,  the  Derby  Street  of 
1796,  crowded  with  carts  and  carriages,  with  rich 
merchants  in  fine  coats  and  swarthy  sailors  with- 
out so  much  as  a  shirt.  Probably  Derby  Street 
looked  a  good  deal  like  home  to  the  Oriental  beast, 
for  in  the  taverns  and  on  the  pavement  were 
men  to  whom  the  East  was  as  familiar  as  the 
West,  while  the  goods  that  were  piled  high  in 
warehouse  and  on  the  labouring  drays  were 
such  as  elephants  of  an  urban  sort  had  grown  up 
beside. 

The  same  year  in  which  the  elephant  came  an- 
other Salem  skipper  brought  the  first  cargo  of 
pepper  that  had  ever  come  here  to  America.  A 
shrewd  man,  this  Skipper  Carnes.  Sailing  along 
the  shores  of  Sumatra,  stopping  for  supplies,  he 
had  discovered  that  pepper  grew  wild  there,  and 
returned  to  trade  brandy,  gin,  and  tobacco  for  as 
much  as  his  ship  could  hold.  The  cargo  roused 
much  interest,  not  entirely  of  a  disinterested  kind, 
H- 102  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

but  several  years  passed  before  the  secret  source 
was  discovered. 

It  was  difficult  to  see,  behind  the  dingy  old  street 
we  were  traversing,  where  the  coal-dust  from  the 
wharves  stirred  in  the  wind,  the  splendid  pageant 
of  energy  and  adventure  that  had  once  made  it 
known  the  round  world  over.  Once  again  we 
looked  at  the  ruin  induced  by  the  Embargo  Act, 
and  here,  since  none  of  the  charmed  beauty  of 
Portsmouth  or  Newburyport  remained,  it  assumed 
the  aspect  of  a  wanton  murder.  Its  result  had  been 
as  final  and  as  fatal. 

We  left  Derby  Street  by  way  of  old  Front  Street, 
passed  the  market,  and  so  through  Norman  into 
Chestnut,  where  there  are  many  of  the  finest  old 
houses  in  the  city,  and  a  double  row  of  magnificent 
elms  and  chestnuts.  Here  the  beautiful  brick 
houses  with  their  exquisite  doorways  fulfil  every 
requirement  of  dignity  and  beauty  as  applied  to 
home  architecture.  Salem  is  remarkably  rich  in 
these  three-story,  square  or  oblong  examples  of 
Colonial  building,  with  gambrel  roofs  more  fre- 
quently than  not,  crowned  with  the  "  deck  "  and 
railing  so  pleasant  to  a  seafaring  man,  and  so  use- 
ful as  a  lookout  point  from  which  to  spy  the  in- 
coming ships  as  they  took  the  harbour  water.  It 
is  rarely  fortunate  that  the  fire  of  1913  was  checked 
-1-103-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

before  this  noble  portion  of  the  city  was  touched 
by  the  flames. 

We  made  little  attempt  to  see  the  many  among 
these  Colonial  houses  that  were  noted  for  past  resi- 
dence of  Judge  or  Governor  or  visiting  celebrity. 
It  is  easy  to  overdo  that  sort  of  thing,  particularly 
in  a  city  as  large  and  loaded  with  historic  happen- 
ings as  Salem.  But  we  walked  out  to  North 
Bridge,  where,  in  the  Revolution,  the  first  armed  re- 
sistance was  offered  the  British,  under  Leslie.  The 
Englishman  saw  the  point,  and  returned  to  Marble- 
head,  from  whence  he  had  come  to  get  hold  of  some 
cannon  rumoured  to  be  hidden  near  North  Street. 
Instead  of  the  cannon  he  found  the  bridge  draw  up 
and  a  body  of  determined  men  on  the  further  side, 
as  well  as  a  clergyman,  Thomas  Barnard,  who  had 
adjourned  his  congregation  and  hastened  to  the 
bridge  to  see  what  words  might  do  in  averting 
bloodshed. 

A  parley  ensued  which  lasted  several  hours,  dur- 
ing which  careful  men  removed  the  guns  to  a  se- 
cure hiding  place.  At  last  the  British  commander 
offered  to  withdraw,  if,  to  save  his  face,  the  draw 
were  lowered  and  he  and  his  men  permitted  to 
march  part  way  across.  This  was  done  and  the  in- 
cident closed.  A  tablet  on  one  of  the  granite  up- 
rights of  the  bridge  summarises  the  story. 

But  it  is  Beverly  Bridge  that  is  worth  seeing 
-*-  104 '+- 


for  its  own  lovely  sake,  and  the  walk  along 
Bridge  Street  with  the  sweet  sea-wind  blowing 
down  it  is  delightful.  Many  an  old  house,  not 
so  rich  as  those  on  Chestnut  Street  and  Washing- 
ton Square,  holds  its  ancient  timbers  serene 
against  the  passage  of  time,  and  a  dive  down  any 
one  of  the  streets  that  lead  away  from  the  water 
reveals  more  of  them.  On  St.  Peter's  Street  there 
is  a  very  old  house,  with  the  overhanging  second 
story  that  used  to  be  common  in  Salem,  but  is  now 
rare,  thanks  to  modern  progress,  which  has  razed 
most  of  the  homes  so  built. 

Hawthorne  wrote  of  Beverly  Bridge  when  he 
described  the  Toll  Gatherer  and  his  seat  beside 
the  draw,  and  loved  to  come  here  to  chat  with 
the  sailorfolk  who  congregated  at  the  salty  place, 
where  the  tides  sucked  in  and  out.  The  old  seat 
has  disappeared  with  the  toll-gatherer.  But  be- 
low in  the  clear  water  you  can  still  at  low  tide 
find  all  sorts  and  varieties  of  little  sea  creatures, 
left  in  holes  of  the  rock  while  the  busy  sea  goes 
about  its  great  business.  The  houses  snuggle  down 
close  on  the  bank,  with  trees  and  bushes  and  grass, 
picturesquely  weather-beaten.  It  is  the  kind  of 
bridge  about  and  on  which  any  normal  human 
being  will  love  to  linger,  fishing  or  just  plain 
idling,  while  the  clouds  sail  by  overhead  and  the 
water  whispers  and  moves  below. 
-*-  105  -*-. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

A  different  spot  this  from  the  barren  rock  called 
Gallows  Hill,  where  the  irons  that  supported  the 
gibbet  during  the  murders  of  the  witch  madness 
still  rust.  It  takes  both  to  make  Salem.  The  hill- 
top is  left  in  its  isolation,  though  a  few  houses 
climb  the  slope.  From  this  grim  old  hill  you  can 
look  back  over  the  town,  largely  lost  in  the  green- 
ery of  its  tall  elms,  and  also  out  across  the  flowery 
country,  to  where  a  pond  lies  shining. 

Sister  and  I  spent  a  morning  in  the  Essex  Insti- 
tute and  Peabody  Museum,  the  Custom  House  and 
the  Public  Library.  The  Museum  is  full  of  things 
brought  home  from  every  part  of  the  world. 
Whenever  a  sailor  saw  something  particularly 
strange  and  outlandish,  he  got  it  and  brought  it 
to  show  the  folks  at  home.  Eventually  these 
found  their  way  into  the  museum,  together  with 
models  of  the  ships  that  carried  them,  or  portraits 
of  these  ships,  sailing  along  on  mounting  seas  with 
white  sails  drawing  and  a  bone  in  their  teeth. 
These  portraits  are  fascinating,  a  labour  of  love, 
reminding  you,  in  the  meticulous  care  with  which 
each  detail  is  completed,  of  those  prints  of  racing 
horses  hanging  in  old  English  inns,  clearly  the 
work  of  hands  that  would  have  scorned  any  other 
type  of  art. 

The  whaling  exhibit  is  amazingly  perfect,  all 
here  but  the  live  whale  and  the  whaler,  and  a 
•-»•  106  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

trifle  of  imagination  ought  to  conjure  the  latter 
up,  to  snatch  again  the  tools  he  used  so  well,  the 
slender  harpoon  with  which  he  so  composedly  set 
out  to  conquer  leviathan.  Beside  the  weapon  the 
bones  of  the  victim  display  their  impotent  huge- 
ness. 

The  museum  is  beautifully  arranged;  a  vast 
amount  of  intelligence  and  carefulness  have  gone 
to  the  work.  Take  it  for  all,  it  epitomises  the  life 
of  a  ship  with  all  her  activities,  the  perils  she 
meets,  the  cargoes  she  carries,  the  prey  she  hunts, 
the  strange  things  she  sees.  There  are  other  things 
here  too,  collections  of  all  sorts,  but  the  peculiar 
quality  that  makes  Peabody  different  from  other 
museums  is  the  ship  quality. 

The  Essex  Institute  is  devoted  more  closely  to 
Salem  itself,  and  to  that  period  of  our  history  of 
which  old  Salem  was  so  thoroughgoing  a  product. 
We  wandered  about  as  we  chose,  no  one  else  hav- 
ing penetrated  the  building  on  that  morning, 
which  looked  determined  to  rain,  and  yet  didn't. 

Here  we  found  the  cradle  that  rocked  the  infant 
Story,  and  an  old  shirt  of  Napoleon.  Here  was 
Governor  Endecott's  sundial,  and  sampler  fash- 
ioned by  his  wife.  Here  was  the  desk  from  the 
Custom  House  on  which  Hawthorne  did  his  work, 
and  a  handful  of  tea  saved  from  the  Boston  Tea 
Party.  A  place  of  shreds  and  patches  iridescent 
+  107-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

with  romance  or  eloquent  of  history,  human  odds 
and  ends  that  touch  you  strongly.  Hours  slip  along 
as  you  lean  over  the  cases,  feeling  the  dim  pres- 
ences to  which  these  lendings  once  belonged. 

The  Custom  House  is  not,  or  was  not  when  we 
ventured  in,  a  busy  place.  It  has  its  tasks,  but  they 
are  rather  those  of  a  placid  old  gentleman  than  of 
a  brawny  and  alert  man,  such  as  Salem's  heyday 
must  have  commanded.  The  building  stands  at 
the  head  of  Derby  Wharf,  the  biggest  and  once 
the  busiest  in  the  town.  A  quiet  and  pleasant  place, 
it  appears  to  be  waiting  for  a  new  era  of  ships 
and  trading,  if  not  of  adventure. 

Back  on  Essex  Street,  we  stopped  in  at  the  drug 
store  that  violates  the  ancient  perfection  of  what 
is  known  as  the  Old  Witch  House,  for  the  purpose 
of  buying  postcards. 

It  was  the  druggist,  or  an  assistant  of  his,  that 
told  us  how  Salem  had  yet  another  past,  since 
the  fire. 

"We  were  a  great  manufacturing  place  before 
that,  but  the  factories  were  all  burned  down,  and 
they've  gone  now,  and  won't  come  back,"  he  said. 
"  It's  been  a  bad  thing  for  Salem." 

Salem  is  too  strong,  and  has  weathered  too  many 

storms  and  disappointments,  to  be  really  in  peril 

because  of  a  disastrous  fire.     How  disastrous  a 

glance  over  the  burned  area  is  enough  to  show; 

H-  108-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

it  looks  like  San  Francisco  a  year  after  her  fire  on 
a  small  scale,  a  desolate  stretch  of  many,  many 
blocks  with  a  few  chimneys  sticking  up,  dead  trees 
still  standing,  heaps  of  stone  and  brick,  and  here 
and  again  a  new  building  in  process  of  construc- 
tion. Somewhere  in  this  part  of  town,  the  recon- 
struction plans  include  a  park  or  place,  to  be 
named  after  Hawthorne.  In  this  square  there  is 
to  be  a  statue  of  more  than  life  size,  by  Belah  Pratt, 
showing  the  novelist  in  a  seated  attitude  full  of 
alert  spirit,  yet  with  a  fine  effect  of  meditative 
calm,  a  beautiful  and  inspired  work. 

We  left  Salem  at  sunset,  over  the  Beverly 
Bridge,  vaguely  disturbed  by  the  conflicting  im- 
pressions of  her  noisy,  commercial  present,  that 
will  not  let  you  be,  and  by  the  obstinate  power  of 
her  past,  equally  insistent. 


109 


Beverly  and  the  Rocky  Coast 


•*«~  •** 

•5*3r        *" 


CHAPTER  V 

Beverly  and  the  Rocky  Coast 

HAD  always  known  of  Beverly  as  the 
home  of  Lucy  Larcom,  whose  delightful 
book,  "  A  New  England  Girlhood,"  was 
one  of  the  joys  of  my  youthful  days  of 
leisure.  Many  a  happy  hour  I  had  spent  poring 
over  its  pages,  so  simple  and  so  telling,  with  their 
clear  and  tenderly  remembered  pictures  of  a  life 
whose  type  has  now  passed  out  of  our  experience. 
Only  then  I  did  not  realise  that  it  was  passed  away, 
and  expected  some  time  to  see  the  old  town,  with 
its  crooked,  wandering  Main  Street,  said  to  have 
been  laid  out  by  the  wandering  cows  as  the  first 
settlers  drove  them  to  pasture  at  Wenham.  To 
walk  in  its  narrow  lanes,  real  lanes,  too  narrow  for 
a  wagon,  green  with  grass  and  bowered  with  trees, 
and  only  occasionally  encumbered  by  a  house. 
The  Old  South  should  ring  its  chimes,  and  the 
town  clock  mark  the  hours  for  me,  as  they  had  for 
my  heroine,  and  I  too  would  pick  out  names  on 
the  mossy  slate  headstones  on  Burial  Ground. 

Well,  Burial  Ground  and  the  Old  South  and 
The  Misery  Islands  out  in  the  Bay  remain,  but 
-+  113-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

precious  little  besides  of  the  Beverly,  or  the  Farms, 
that  Lucy  used  to  know  and  love.  It  is  a  place  of 
summer  homes  now,  with  beautiful  wide  streets 
where  motors  hasten  smoothly,  the  beginning  of 
that  string  of  fashion  and  of  wealth  that  stretches 
magnificently  along  the  rocky  coast  clear  up  to 
Rockport. 

And  by  the  way,  any  one  who  has  owned  a  car, 
and  who  has  not  taken  that  wonderful  run  along 
what  used  to  be  called  Cape  Ann  Side,  or  that 
other,  very  different  but  equally  beautiful,  El 
Camino  Real  of  California,  has  missed  the 
two  immense  reasons  for  owning  an  automo- 
bile in  America,  and  something  should  be  done 
about  it. 

It  was  as  far  back  as  1668  that  Beverly,  which 
had  been  part  of  Salem,  was  made  a  separate  town. 
Across  the  pretty  Danvers  River  it  lay,  a  mere 
hamlet,  and  every  man  in  it  was  a  sailor.  There 
was  no  worse  insult  in  the  experience  of  a  Beverly 
male  than  to  be  called  a  landlubber.  And  it  was 
hard  to  keep  the  boys  in  school,  they  had  such  a 
habit  of  slipping  aboard  some  likely  vessel  bound 
for  Madagascar  or  Calcutta  or  Hongkong  or  the 
Mediterranean,  all  of  which  supposedly  distant 
spots  seemed  far  closer  and  more  familiar  to  Bev- 
erly than  any  hill  town  back  inland.  A  town 
closely  wedded  to  the  sea,  knowing  all  the  joy  and 
-*- 114-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

adventure,  all  the  pathos  and  tragedy,  of  that 
marriage. 

The  further  our  pilgrimage  extended,  the  more 
Sister  and  I  marvelled  at  the  individuality  of  the 
old  towns  we  came  to  see.  They  were  all  born  at 
approximately  the  same  time;  not  so  many  years 
lay  between  the  eldest  and  the  youngest  of  the 
group.  They  were  settled  by  much  the  same  type 
of  men  and  women,  pioneer  and  pilgrim.  Each 
was  devoted  to  seafaring,  yet  each  was  strongly 
itself,  as  full  of  its  own  peculiar  character  as  any 
one  of  the  old  sea  captains  who  built  its  first  houses 
and  sailed  its  first  ships. 

Beverly  is  mostly  young  nowadays,  for  when  it 
was  old  it  was  very  small,  and  that  little  has  left 
slight  traces.  There  is  the  fine  old  Colonial  man- 
sion where  the  Historic  Society  is  housed,  to  be 
sure,  and  several  churches  built  when  New  Eng- 
land could  build  churches.  The  First  Parish,  Uni- 
tarian, is  particularly  attractive,  with  good  col- 
umns and  a  low  but  graceful  spire. 

Sister  and  I  walked  first  to  Independence  Park, 
which  used,  before  the  city  bought  it  for  its  pres- 
ent purpose,  to  be  known  as  the  Queen's  Hotel  Lot. 
Here,  in  Revolutionary  days,  was  the  Army  Post, 
the  only  one  established  by  General  Washington 
in  the  Province  of  Massachusetts  outside  the  envi- 
rons of  Boston.  The  regiment  was  the  i4th  of  the 
.-*•  115-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Continental  Army,  commanded  by  Colonel  John 
Glover  of  Marblehead,  who  had  moved  to  Beverly 
with  his  fish  business  some  time  earlier.  He  was 
a  patriotic  gentleman,  immediately  offering  his 
ships  to  the  work  of  helping  where  and  how  they 
could.  Others  were  not  so  prompt. 

The  old  parade  ground  faced  the  sea,  and  be- 
hind were  the  barracks.  Here,  on  July  17,  1776, 
the  Declaration  was  read.  Many  a  rich  prize  had 
been  brought  into  the  harbour  before  then,  and 
lay  along  the  piers,  unloaded  of  its  valuable  cargo. 
Now  you  see  more  pleasure  boats  than  any  other 
craft,  white  winged,  white  hulled,  showing  a  line 
of  green  as  they  keel  to  the  breeze.  And  not  only 
sails,  but  many  a  power  boat  which  would  have 
looked  like  plain  witchcraft  to  the  sturdy  men  of 
the  deepsea  days. 

Lying  under  trees  and  looking  at  the  sea  is  about 
as  delightful  a  way  to  spend  a  morning  as  man, 
for  all  his  cunning,  has  discovered.  We  thought 
so,  at  least.  All  Beverly's  streets  seem,  finally,  to 
lead  you  to  water.  Now  the  quiet  reaches  of  the 
Danvers  River,  with  Salem  beyond,  somewhat 
smoky  and  sending  up  many  a  tower  and  spire  to 
break  the  skyline  above  its  rounded  trees;  again 
to  the  Bay,  with  the  islands,  Greater  and  Lesser 
Misery  as  some  call  them,  or  Great  and  Little 
Misery,  according  to  others.  The  Misery  remains, 


p^Jf^S^t. 

'^fe^v^V"^^ 

5*o±i*^ 

jf£*&*ZZ£jL*  ' 

-  :ir--  i-i^C^^5^1^ 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  any  case,  and  why  it  is  difficult  to  guess,  for 
they  look  inviting  in  the  new  summer,  and  are  no 
rockier  than  the  rest  of  this  stern  coast.  We  heard 
faint  hints  of  shipwrecks  long  ago,  but  there  seems 
to  be  no  sharp  and  poignant  tale  to  tell  of  them. 
An  idle  author  might  do  worse  than  think  up  a 
story  to  fit  the  name.  If  the  story  be  good  enough 
it  is  certain,  in  a  century  or  more,  to  be  mistaken 
for  the  truth,  and  all  will  be  well. 

There  are  plenty  of  trees  in  Beverly,  even  in  the 
very  modern  business  blocks  and  those  streets 
edged  with  the  regulation  suburban  house  that  has 
been  wished  on  so  much  of  America.  But  one 
street,  Hale,  was  particularly  leafy.  In  places  the 
trees  fairly  arched  over  it,  making  a  green  tunnel 
delectable  to  tread  under.  In  other  places  along 
this  street  the  rocky  ledges  clamber  straight  up, 
with  fascinating  summer  cottages  peering  above 
them,  through  a  perfect  veil  of  tree-boughs  and 
vines. 

Hunger  assailed  us  as  we  wandered  back  into 
the  town  centre,  and  we  found  a  place  that  adver- 
tised seafood  and  there  lunched  on  a  magnificent 
tureenful  of  steamed  clams. 

"  There  are  places  in  this  world  where  you  can 
not  get  steamed  clams,"  I  told  Sister,  "  and  yet  peo- 
ple live  in  them." 

"Exist!" 

'-»•  117-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

We  finished  our  clams  in  happy  silence,  and 
then,  following  directions,  walked  to  West  Beach. 

Black  Ledge,  on  this  beach,  is  as  rugged  a  cape- 
let  as  you  can  find,  jutting  out  into  the  sea  in 
broken  masses  of  sharp  rock,  dark  as  the  dark  pines 
upon  it  that  crowd  as  close  to  the  water  as  they 
dare.  In  the  tropics  I  have  seen  the  cocoa  palms 
stepping  right  down  into  the  breakers,  bending 
gracefully  over,  like  slender  maidens,  to  look  at 
themselves  in  the  shining  wave.  Here  the  gnarled 
pines  get  almost  as  near,  but  they  march  with 
back-flung  heads  and  in  close  array,  like  soldiers 
on  a  forlorn  hope. 

Whenever  there  was  a  house  there  were  lilacs 
and  tulips.  Beverly  is  devoted  to  the  joyous  flare 
of  red  and  yellow  tulips;  as  for  the  lilacs,  New 
England  plants  them  on  hill  slope  or  along  shady 
lanes,  in  back  gardens,  by  white  fences,  in  clumps 
and  hedges.  Chicago  has  probably  more  lilacs 
than  any  other  city  in  the  world,  miles  of  them 
along  to  the  Lake  Shore,  but  the  whole  of  New 
England  is  sweet  with  them  in  late  May  and  early 
June.  And  how  well  the  somewhat  sad  harmony 
of  mauve  and  green  suits  the  rocky  land,  with  its 
grey  sea  beating  on  those  glacial  ledges,  filling  the 
land  with  the  murmur  of  eternity. 

The  fog  came  stealing  in  as  we  climbed  the  rocks 
and  sauntered  on  the  wide  stretches  of  West  Beach. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

First  far  away  on  the  horizon,  a  brownish  streak, 
then  nearer  over  the  blue  water,  robbing  it  of 
colour,  stepping  closer,  finally  wrapping  itself 
about  us,  bringing  with  it  a  saltier  smell.  The 
pines  caught  it  in  their  branches  and  clung  to  it, 
the  rocks  grew  slipperier  with  it. 

The  little  steamers  that  ply  about  in  the  Bay 
gave  out  harsh  cries  and  hoots,  but  everything  else 
grew  silent,  even  the  birds.  We  walked  back  thrill- 
ing to  that  sense  of  mystery  which  fog  evokes.  It  al- 
ways seems  to  me  something  strangely  prehistoric, 
associated  with  the  beginning  of  things. 

Beverly  is  now  chiefly  occupied,  aside  from  its 
summer  population,  much  of  which  is  at  the  Farms 
and  Prides  Crossing,  parts  of  the  city  nearer  the 
sea,  in  making  shoes,  and  the  machinery  for  mak- 
ing shoes.  But  here,  back  in  1788,  the  first  cotton 
mill  ever  successfully  operated  in  the  country  was 
set  up.  And  even  to-day  its  shipping  is  not  entirely 
neglected.  There  is  a  line  that  runs  all  the  way  to 
Texas,  after  oil.  A  busy,  thriving  city  where  the 
landlubber  has  come  to  his  own. 

We  sought  for  Lucy  Larcom's  birthplace  in 
vain.  It  has  probably  been  swept  away  in  the  ad- 
vance of  business,  for  she  says  that  it  was  right  in 
the  centre  of  Beverly.  The  old  homestead  was  at 
the  Farms  with  its  outlook  on  the  sea,  and  has  also 
gone.  Wilson  Flagg  was  born  in  this  town,  a 
-*-  119-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

writer  of  gentle  charm  who  never  tired  of  describ- 
ing the  fields  and  woods  and  birds  and  seasons  of 
his  home  land,  nor  ever  tired  any  one  fortunate 
enough  to  read  his  pages. 

This  was  the  country  of  the  Puritans,  as  Cape 
Cod  is  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  certainly  in  many  ways 
the  Puritans  had  the  best  of  it.  The  islands  that 
lie  out  beyond  Beverly,  the  Miseries  being  accom- 
panied by  House,  Rams,  and  Chubb,  break  the 
rough  vigour  of  the  Atlantic,  and  the  land  here  is 
more  fruitful  and  smiling.  Doubtless  the  Puri- 
tans were  not  consciously  guilty  of  choosing  an 
easier  job  than  their  forerunners,  and  probably 
they  made  up  for  it  in  other  ways.  But  a  good 
land  it  is,  and  Beverly  now  grows  most  of  the  vege- 
tables for  Boston's  splendid  markets,  sheltering 
them  under  acres  of  glass  from  the  uncertain 
spring.  Now,  with  summer  on  the  edge  of  entry, 
these  glass  protections  were  shoved  aside,  and  the 
vivid  green  of  young  growth  lay  spread  to  the  sun. 
Men  in  blue  overalls  moved  about  among  them, 
lifting  off  the  frames,  thinning  out  or  transplanting 
the  plants,  shading  here,  watering  there. 

We  had  accepted  the  kindly  automobile  owned 
by  a  friend,  for  there  was  no  use  walking  the 
smooth  drives  that  rolled  their  well-kept  miles 
through  Montserrat,  the  Manchesters,  and  Mag- 
nolia. Through  the  woods  or  by  the  shore  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

roads  are  wonderful.  We  sat  back  as  the  great 
machine  ambled  along,  well  within  speed  limit. 
Rules  are  strictly  enforced  here,  as  an  alert  figure 
on  a  motor  cycle  lurking  behind  a  bend  in  the  road 
or  hidden  near  a  hedge  gave  witness. 

"  They'll  get  you  in  a  minute,"  confessed  our 
host.  "  I've  tried  it  once  or  twice,  but  not  again." 

You  see  few  houses  along  the  way,  because 
the  grounds  are  flung  so  magnificently  about 
them  that  they  fairly  disappear  in  acres  of  land- 
scape gardening.  Beautiful  lawns,  wild  gardens, 
rock  gardens,  lakes  and  streams  and  splendid  trees, 
and  the  dark  grey  road  winding  before  you,  mile 
on  mile. 

We  decided  that  President  Taft  had  done  as 
well  as  could  be  expected  when  he  chose  Mont- 
serrat  for  his  summer  home.  There  is  a  pomp 
to  these  beautiful  places  of  course;  you  can  not 
spend  huge  sums  of  money  in  building  a  cottage 
and  laying  out  the  grounds  around  it  without  bor- 
rowing a  touch  of  the  palace.  But  it  is  a  pleasant 
pomp,  concealing  itself  very  successfully  in  Co- 
lonial architecture,  in  white  walls  and  green  shut- 
ters, in  broad  verandas  hung  with  blooming 
creepers,  that  appear  more  the  work  of  nature  than 
of  man. 

"  Pride's  and  Beverly  Farms  and  the  Man- 
chesters  are  millionaires'  row,"  said  our  host,  "  and 
:-»- 121  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

we  are  getting  more  of  them  every  year.  If  you 
have  a  little  cottage  here  that  you  don't  care  to 
occupy  through  July  and  August  some  frantic 
searcher  for  a  home  will  willingly  pay  you  ten 
thousand  dollars  for  the  privilege  of  doing  so." 

We  stopped  on  Manchester's  Singing  Beach, 
where  the  sand  makes  music  if  crushed  by  a  wheel, 
and  sped  onward  to  Magnolia.  There  is  a  charm- 
ing colonnade  of  shops  in  the  village,  with  signs 
showing  that  summer  was  stirring  in  their  show- 
windows.  Tucked  in  unexpected  places  you  came 
across  a  notice  that  there  was  a  studio  to  let.  The 
artists  were  beginning  to  mingle  with  the  mil- 
lionaires. 

This  whole  North  Shore  is  the  epitome  of  vaca- 
tion, and  as  Sister  and  I  sat  in  the  car  we  watched 
it  unroll  its  myriad  fascinations.  Now  we  slipped 
under  the  arching  green  of  great  trees,  or  beside 
silver  willows.  Suddenly  we  were  running  close 
to  the  racing  sea,  that  tossed  white  arms  above  the 
tawny  rock  ledges,  or  fell  and  sank  on  a  sandy 
beach.  Then  the  road  curved  into  a  stretch  of 
wild,  sweet-smelling  woodland,  and  next  we 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white-walled,  red-tiled  villa 
in  the  midst  of  stately  gardens,  that  might  have 
been  brought  by  the  genie  of  Aladdin's  lamp 
straight  from  the  Mediterranean.  Presently  we 
skirted  a  charming  stretch  where  golfers  struggled 
-*-  122  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

or  triumphed,  and  left  that  behind  to  come  out 
on  the  edge  of  a  lovely  cove  where  yachts  bobbed 
at  anchor  and  grey  cottages  watched  them  from 
the  shore. 

"The  ultimate  of  Puritanism,"  murmured  Sis- 
ter. "  Time  must  have  a  sense  of  humour." 

We  bade  goodbye  to  the  motor  car  at  Magnolia, 
after  one  of  those  luncheons  served  on  the  Ameri- 
can plan  by  a  hotel  that  had  evidently  determined 
to  beat  every  other  of  the  species  in  variety  and 
number  of  choices.  Gargantua  might  have  eaten 
straight  down  the  list  in  his  lusty  youth,  but  he 
would  have  died  of  the  feat.  We  all  had  those 
fine  appetites  one  picks  up  so  easily  and  frequently 
on  the  New  England  coast,  but  couldn't  make  more 
than  a  mere  dent  in  the  menu. 

Magnolia  is  called  what  it  is  because  of  a  swamp 
near  the  station  where  the  Magnolia  Glaucus  is 
found  in  considerable  quantities,  this  being  its  most 
northern  point.  A  lovely  evergreen  shrub  that 
grows  twice  as  high  as  your  head,  with  thick  leaves 
that  have  a  bluish  tinge  on  top,  and  are  silvery 
below.  We  hunted  in  vain  for  one  of  the  globu- 
lar, creamy,  fragrant  flowers  that  are  so  thick  in 
July;  there  were  not  even  any  buds,  so  far  as  we 
could  discover. 

All  about  Magnolia  the  woods  are  particularly 
beautiful,  and  full  of  little  paths  that  run  about 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

haphazardly,  leading,  most  of  them,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  coast,  though  some  appear  to  strike 
away  toward  the  interior  with  an  air  of  lovely 
promise.  Some  day  we  are  going  back — another 
place  that  insists  on  a  return  engagement — to  take 
one  of  those  sea-departing  ways.  But  this  time  it 
was  to  the  beach  we  went,  for  there  were  Rafe's 
Chasm  and  Norman's  Woe  to  see,  and  the  great 
rocks,  cut  and  piled  by  busy  glaciers  several  years 
back,  to  climb  over. 

Colonel  Higginson  wrote  a  page  or  two  of  praise 
about  these  woodways  near  old  Gloucester,  an- 
swering Hawthorne's  complaint  that  America 
knew  no  stiles  and  footpaths  by  telling  of  the  miles 
of  them  that  grew  on  Cape  Ann.  Hawthorne  was 
right  in  general,  for  most  of  our  walking  has  to 
be  done  on  roads,  a  proof  of  how  few  real  walkers 
there  are  among  us ;  but  here,  so  close  to  his  own 
Salem,  you  can  walk  all  day  and  hardly  need  to 
so  much  as  cross  a  road. 

At  one  place  we  found  a  gang  of  men  spraying 
the  forest  against  the  inroads  of  the  browntail 
moth.  Massachusetts  is  in  battle  array  against 
these  pests,  and  co-operation  is  having  its 
effect. 

But  Sister  and  I  had  been  bothered  ever  since 
we  struck  Salem  by  the  irritation  of  the  invisible 
little  hairs  that  float  in  the  air,  poisoning  the  skin 
-»-  124-*- 


/ 

i'<   c    •   ' 


*:M  3BS!s^:^m^,|.!w  / 

'    17^      '  i^^^^M    '^m    f *•    ^"'^'* -':^':     I    ":    "   •'' 

^^^"^jmi^ 


if^if'^ 

-V-ffl;f  ;V%^/'  V^ 

rfi'  ttA^Sry     •«*&•,, 


a^1' 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

where  they  touch  it  like  the  bite  of  some  insect, 
and  we  knew  that  Massachusetts  had  not  entirely 
won  her  fight. 

It  was  one  of  those  clear  blue  days  with  an  east- 
erly wind  that  seem  too  good  to  be  true.  Every 
shade  of  colour  is  intensified,  every  breath  of  fra- 
grance more  pronounced,  and  there  is  a  freshness 
in  the  atmosphere  that  makes  exercise  a  delectable 
necessity.  We  followed  the  narrow  windings  of 
the  path  with  light  feet,  running  down  small  hills 
with  shouts.  And  long  before  we  reached  the 
sea  we  heard  it  shouting  too. 

Summer  homes  crowd  down  to  the  beach  be- 
tween Magnolia  and  Gloucester,  but  they  leave  you 
scrambling  room  on  the  shattered,  tawny  rocks, 
that  are  so  different  in  colour  from  the  grey  Maine 
boulders.  It  was  slow  going,  for  you  had  to  watch 
your  step  as  closely  as  though  you  were  in  the  New 
York  subway,  so  precariously  was  one  ledge  piled 
on  another.  Narrow  rifts  where  the  river  ran  in, 
wide  pools  left  by  the  outgoing  tide,  sections  that 
were  regular  moraines,  loose  stones  that  threat- 
ened to  start  you  and  themselves  sliding  into  the 
surf,  were  all  mixed  up  in  splendid  confusion. 

The  beach  rose  higher  and  higher,  till  it  became 
a  beetling  cliff,  at  whose  foot  the  waves  swept, 
looking  for  some  crack  of  entry.  Finding  many 
long  slits  down  which  we  peered,  wondering 

r»-  125  H- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

whether  this  or  that  was  Rafe's  particular 
property. 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  when  we  reached  it, 
however — a  great  ragged  chasm  in  the  rock  more 
than  sixty  feet  deep  and  about  six  across.  We  lay 
flat,  looking  down  at  the  rushing  water  that  tossed 
its  way  in  and  fumbled  and  roared  to  get  out  again, 
like  something  living  and  wild  that  was  struck 
with  terror  at  the  dark  trap  in  which  it  found 
itself.  There  was  hypnotic  power  in  the  sight  and 
sound,  and  we  could  not  get  away  for  a  long  while, 
waiting  for  the  next  wave  to  do  what  all  were 
clamouring  to  do  and  could  not  accomplish,  for  all 
their  white  rage. 

Years  ago  a  young  woman  was  swept  into  this 
chasm  by  the  wind  and  dashed  to  pieces  in  the 
battle  below.  An  iron  cross  was  driven  into  the 
rock  to  mark  the  tragedy. 

"  It  wants  another  of  us,"  Sister  said,  "  and 
maybe  we'd  better  go  on,  or  it  might  get  what  it 
wants." 

For  the  fury  below,  that  drew  our  gaze  and  our 
imagination,  seemed  to  tug  at  our  bodies  also. 

Beyond  the  chasm  we  climbed  higher  up  the 
cliff,  and  got  a  great  view.  Close  to  us  lay  the  long 
black  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  with  a  white  edge 
where  the  waves  broke.  A  bell  buoy,  whose  mourn- 
ful tolling  we  had  heard  some  time,  rocks  before 
-*•  136  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

it.  Beyond,  Eastern  Point,  with  its  lighthouse, 
between  these  two  the  mouth  of  Gloucester  Har- 
bour. Sailing  boats  and  steamers  were  setting  in 
and  out,  and  the  long  line  of  the  opposite  shore  was 
charmingly  green  and  distinct  in  the  afternoon 
light. 

We  walked  on  along  the  cliff's  top,  getting  a  con- 
stantly increasing  view  of  the  harbour,  and  of  the 
Inner  Harbour  at  its  foot,  crowded  with  shipping. 
Many  a  time  Longfellow  must  have  taken  this 
same  walk,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  chose  the 
scene  for  his  stirring  ballad  of  shipwreck  and 
death.  There,  just  beyond,  the  home  lights  of 
Gloucester  town,  and  here  the  treacherous  rock 
snarling  at  the  sea,  where  so  many  ships  have  found 
destruction. 

To  be  sure,  many  people  have  united  in  prov- 
ing that  the  schooner  Hesperus  was  not  one  of 
these  ships,  and  for  all  I  know  that  none  of  the  skip- 
pers who  died  there  had  a  daughter,  but  the  death 
at  the  harbour's  mouth  remains,  and  men  and 
women  and  children  have  paid  their  toll  to  it. 

The  rock  gets  its  name  from  a  tradition  that  a 
ship  commanded  by  William  Norman,  which 
sailed  out  of  Gloucester  Harbour  in  1682  and 
never  returned,  was  wrecked  there. 

Floating  in  the  swell  of  the  waves,  not  far  from 
the  face  of  the  cliff,  we  saw  countless  lobster  pots, 
-*- 127-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

and  perched  on  a  projecting  bastion  of  rock,  some 
way  down  the  face  of  the  cliff,  a  solitary  fisherman 
sat  rod  in  hand.  A  basket  lay  beside  him,  but 
whether  full  or  empty  we  could  not  tell,  as  wa 
stared  down  at  him.  Unconscious  of  observation 
he  puffed  his  pipe,  presenting  the  picture  of  an  ab- 
solutely contented  man. 

And  now  we  decided  to  strike  back  into  the 
woods  and  try  to  intercept  the  motor  bus  we 
had  been  told  plied  between  Gloucester  and 
Magnolia. 

The  bus  proved  a  very  natty  concern  when  it 
came  along,  with  no  one  aboard  but  the  driver,  a 
slim  young  New  Englander  who  nodded  affably  as 
we  got  in. 

"  Been  walking  far?  "  he  inquired,  as  we  started 
along  once  more.  , 

We  told  him  we'd  been  hanging  over  Rafe's 
Chasm,  among  other  deeds  of  the  day. 

"  You'd  oughter  see  that  in  a  winter  storm," 
he  said.  "  It  ain't  nothing  now — but  when  one  of 
them  big  blows  gets  the  sea  going  you  can  hear  the 
roar  of  the  waves  that  shoots  up  it  a  long  way. 
I've  been  along  there  when  a  man  couldn't  hardly 
stand  up  against  the  wind,  and  the  way  the  sea 
pounds  in  on  them  rocks  is  tremenjous.  Seeing 
this  coast  in  summer  you  never  get  to  know  what 
it  is." 

H- 128  -K 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

It  was  easy  to  believe  that  winter  must  be  mag- 
nificent, and  as  lonely  as  magnificent 

"  You  don't  meet  many  people  strolling  that  way 
in  a  winter  storm,  do  you?  " 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"  They  don't  see  any  fun  in  that  sort  of  walk, 
I  guess.  But  if  you  want  to  know  the  North  Shore 
you  got  to  see  it  in  winter."  He  was  firm  about 
it.  And  we  decided  that  he  was  right,  adorable 
as  it  is  in  summer. 


129 


Gloucester 


CHAPTER  VI 

Gloucester 

HE  bus  drew  up  at  a  drug  store  opposite 
the  Gloucester  Post  Office,  also  the  Cus- 
tom House,  a  fine  building  that  is  not 
at  all  Gloucesterish,  but  looks  most  mod- 
ern and  Governmental.  The  rest  of  the  street  is 
entirely  unlike  the  Post  Office,  wandering  in 
crooked  curves  that  remind  you  of  the  track  a  child 
leaves  as  he  runs  along  a  beach  following  the  wash 
of  the  surf.  Main  Street,  in  fact,  like  all  the  rest 
of  Gloucester,  is  governed  by  the  sea.  Its  ancient 
buildings  talk  sea  talk,  informing  you  in  signs  that 
have  swung  to  the  wind  these  many  years  that  the 
Marine  Society  meets  here,  that  this  is  a  place  sail- 
ors will  find  attractive,  that  ship's  stores  are  to  be 
procured  here,  and  sails  over  there.  The  short 
streets  leading  down  from  Main  run  quickly  into 
the  water,  and  in  places  the  water  comes  up  itself, 
lugging  boats  and  nets  and  fish  almost  to  the  side- 
walk. 

You  could  be  put  down  anywhere  in  Gloucester 
blindfold,  and  even  if  you  had  been  haled  from 

-+I33"*-" 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

some  remote  Montana  peak,  you  would  reply,  on 
being  questioned: 

"  I  guess  this  must  be  Gloucester,  U.  S.  A.,  the 
greatest  fish  town  in  the  country." 

For  there  is  a  mixture  of  sea  smell  and  fish  smell, 
of  drying  "  flakes "  and  of  tarry  cordage  that 
speaks  right  out  for  itself.  It  is  a  good  smell,  too, 
though  there  are  places,  close  in  among  the  docks, 
where  it  isn't,  or  where,  at  least,  you  have  to  get 
acclimated  to  it.  In  time,  so  they  say,  even  the  rich- 
est and  oldest  of  these  dock  odours  becomes  a  joy  to 
your  nostrils.  But  at  first,  when  you  scramble 
about  the  edge  of  Inner  Harbour,  among  the  glue 
factories  and  other  useful  buildings  that  jostle  the 
schooners  and  steamers,  you  feel  what  the  English 
call  fed  up  on  smells. 

"  I  think  one  could  live  a  week  easily  on  this 
rich  fragrance  and  never  miss  not  eating,"  Sister 
remarked.  "  Take  this  stratum  here;  there's  surely 
solid  sustenance  in  it." 

But  Gloucester,  if  it  is  somewhat  haunted  by 
the  ghosts  of  its  myriad  victims,  is  as  clean  and 
neat  as  a  ship's  deck.  The  little  streets  that  turn 
so  quickly  into  docks,  the  big  buildings  that  work 
so  steadily  with  the  product  brought  in  by  the 
fishing  boats,  the  slips,  the  harbour,  the  shacks 
where  shining  fish  are  being  pitchforked  about 
and  cut  into  pieces,  all  are  miracles  of  cleanli- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ness.  Seafolk  are  clean  folk,  and  Gloucester  is  im- 
maculate. 

From  the  docks  and  Main  Street  the  town 
mounts  upward  steeply,  giving  the  residential  part 
of  the  old  city  a  fine  outlook  to  the  harbour  and 
beyond.  On  the  roofs  of  these  houses,  some  of 
which  are  very  old,  anxious  women  have  stared 
out  to  sea,  looking  for  a  sail  that  never  returned. 
They  did  so  generations  ago — they  do  so  to-day. 
For  the  toll  the  ocean  claims  in  return  for 
what  it  gives  is  heavy,  and  the  brides  of  Glouces- 
ter are  too  often  widows  before  the  year  is 
out. 

There  is  a  special  Memorial  Day  in  Gloucester. 
It  comes  in  midsummer,  and  it  is  marked  by  pro- 
cessions of  children,  who  go  down  to  the  sea  and 
cast  flowers  upon  the  water  "  for  those  it  has 
taken." 

After  the  seaport  towns  we  had  been  visiting, 
whose  seagoing  days  were  now  but  an  old  man's 
tale,  it  was  thrilling  to  be  in  the  centre  of  this  beau- 
tiful old  city,  whose  whole  life  was  bound  up  with 
the  fisheries,  and  in  which  every  man  you  met  had 
been  or  was  a  fisher,  to  whom  the  Banks  were  as 
familiar  as  his  own  Main  Street,  and  the  lean  of  a 
water-washed  deck  easier  walking  than  the  broad 
highway. 

Nobody  knows  exactly  when  Gloucester  really 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

started.  The  Dorchester  Company  of  Merchant 
Adventurers  sent  out  a  company  of  fishermen  from 
England  in  1623.  But  matters  went  badly,  and 
after  two  years  of  struggle  some  of  these  men  went 
back  to  England,  and  the  rest  to  Naumkeag,  later 
Salem,  with  Roger  Conant.  Some  writers  say  that 
a  few  remained  to  carry  along  the  colony,  others 
deny  it.  At  least  there  was  a  permanent  settlement 
there  some  time  before  1639,  and  in  1642  the  place 
was  incorporated  as  a  township.  These  early 
settlers  tried  to  make  their  living  by  farming,  but 
so  many  cod  kept  crowding  into  the  harbour  that 
finally  they  gave  up  the  somewhat  desperate  job 
of  growing  their  sustenance  out  of  the  Cape 
Ann  granite,  and  began  to  gather  it  out  of  the 
sea. 

To  be  sure,  a  few  of  the  inhabitants  still  turn 
their  attention  to  the  granite;  but  it  is  to  quarry 
it,  not  to  make  farms  of  it.  The  stone  is  of  fine 
quality,  and  particularly  dark. 

We  decided  first  to  see  the  upper  part  of  town. 
All  the  streets  are  twisted,  and  go  climbing  up  and 
down  and  roundabout  as  though  busy  on  errands 
of  their  own.  House  after  house  is  the  typical 
square  or  oblong  hip-roofed  building,  usually 
three  stories  in  height,  and  with  decked  and  balus- 
traded  top.  On  Middle  Street  there  is  an  old 
house  called  the  Revolutionary  House,  with  two 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

immense  brick  chimneys,  one  of  them  dangerously 
tiptilted,  and  a  garden  surrounded  by  a  beautiful 
panelled  brick  wall. 

A  faith  of  its  own,  known  as  the  Independent 
Universalist,  started  in  Gloucester,  under  the  lead- 
ership of  the  Rev.  John  Murray.  The  society 
had  a  stormy  time  of  it  for  several  years,  but 
gradually  established  itself,  and  built,  in  1807,  the 
church  that  is  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  town. 
Standing  in  a  parklike  square  behind  great  elms, 
with  a  beautiful  fagade,  tall  pillars,  and  a  fine 
steeple  of  the  favourite  Wren  type,  this  church  is 
exquisite,  and  one  can  but  thank  the  stalwart  Inde- 
pendents for  insisting  on  their  right  to  be  and  to 
build. 

Many  another  slender  spire  lifts  itself  above  the 
roofs  of  Gloucester,  and  the  skyline  of  the  town, 
seen  from  across  the  harbour,  as  we  presently  did 
see  it,  is  strangely  foreign.  Perhaps  because 
Gloucester  is  so  intensely  New  England  it  ends  by 
impressing  you  as  being  thoroughly  foreign.  Take 
it  apart,  with  its  wooden  or  brick  deck-roofed 
houses,  its  Wren-spired  churches,  its  hither  and 
yon  streets,  its  trolley  line,  it  is  as  American  as  its 
Yankee  skippers.  Taken  together  its  aspect  is  so 
quaint  and  olden  and  individual  that  you  can  not 
believe  it  was  made  in  the  U.  S.  A. 

We  had  meant  to  wander  about  most  of  the 

+  137-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

morning  in  the  elm-shaded  streets  of  the  living 
part  of  the  town,  but  since  the  whole  slope  of 
Gloucester  is  toward  the  harbour  and  it  seems  to 
be  continually  directing  you  there,  we  soon  found 
ourselves  back  on  the  water's  edge,  and  handily  in 
reach  of  a  little  double-decked  boat  that  ferries 
across  the  harbour  to  East  Gloucester.  We  got  on 
the  upper  deck  to  see  all  we  could  of  the  crowded 
shipping  that  kept  the  water  dancing  and  slapping. 
Little  power  boats  sneaked  in  and  out  among  the 
big  fellows  like  boys  in  a  crowd,  and  gave  shrill 
little  whistles  and  toolings  equally  boylike.  The 
harbour  is  very  long  and  narrow,  having  not  an 
inch  to  spare,  and  yet  has  to  give  over  a  good  deal 
of  space  to  an  island  almost  in  the  very  middle  of 
its  being,  an  island  called  by  the  fascinating  name 
of  Five  Pound.  Out  in  the  greater  harbour 
is  another  island  twice  the  size  of  Five  Pound,  and 
any  one  can  guess  its  name,  after  the  lead  that's 
been  given.  But  I'd  like  to  know  the  apt  and 
original  ghost  who,  in  the  body  of  some  long  gone 
Gloucesterman,  settled  on  those  ridiculously  ap- 
propriate names. 

In  the  town  records,  back  in  the  early  part  of 
its  existence,  there  are  these  words:  "Granted  to 
William  Vinson  '  an  island  that  lyes  in  the  coave 
before  his  house,  called  ffivepound  Island."  And 
these,  noting  a  vote  taken  in  1644:  "Ten  Pound 
+  138-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Island  shall  be  reserved  for  Rams  onlie;  and  who- 
ever shall  put  on  anie  but  great  Ramms  shall  for- 
feit as.  6d.  per  head." 

There  seems  to  be  a  particular  grimness  in  that 
second  "  m,"  reserved  as  it  is  for  the  repetition  of 
the  word  ram.  But  why,  one  wonders,  were  the 
ewe  and  the  lamb  considered  unfit  to  browse  the 
pastures  of  Ten  Pound  Island? 

It  didn't  take  more  than  ten  minutes  to  wind  our 
way  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  "  coave."  We 
passed  two  fine  white  yachts  trimmed  with  shining 
brass  that  looked  out  of  place  among  the  rugged 
working  ships,  and  an  enormous  schooner  with 
five  masts  that  was  more  like  a  procession  than  a 
boat.  When  the  war  is  not  keeping  its  fighters  at 
home,  many  Sicilian  barques  put  into  Gloucester 
harbour,  with  salt  for  curing  the  fish.  But  we 
saw  none  of  these,  though  there  were  several  for- 
eign ships  with  their  flags  painted  on  the  wooden 
sides  together  with  the  name  and  nationality  in 
large  letters. 

A  solid  line  of  wharfs  encircles  Inner  Harbour 
and  every  one  of  them  has  its  shipping,  its  sheds 
where  work  is  in  progress,  its  wagons  loading  and 
its  boats  unloading.  From  upper  windows  huge 
brown  seines  are  being  thrown  down  to  men  wait- 
ing below.  Fish  flung  on  the  end  of  a  dock  are 
pitchforked  into  the  covered  sheds,  where  the 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

workers  snatch  them  up,  split  them  and  clean  them 
and  throw  them  into  tubs.  The  tang  of  the  salt, 
drying  flakes  is  strong  in  the  air. 

We  left  our  boat  at  one  of  the  fish  docks,  and 
watched  the  dexterous  work  for  some  time.  The 
young  men  who  were  doing  it  laughed  and  talked 
to  each  other  while  the  keen  knives  flashed  with- 
out ceasing  and  the  shining  fish  came  and  went 
under  their  hands.  Beyond  the  dock  were  the  dry- 
ing flats  or  "  flakes,"  where  the  fish,  spread  on 
wooden  frames  and  sparkling  with  salt,  dry  in  the 
sun.  Shelters  of  snowy  canvas  are  spread  above 
them,  the  direct  rays  evidently  being  too  strong. 
It  is  a  charming  sight,  and  has  that  same  effect 
of  perfect  cleanliness  that  helps  in  making  the 
entire  town  so  attractive. 

We  lingered  on  the  wharves,  enchanted  by  the 
view  of  Gloucester  opposite,  a  view  that  can  not 
be  beaten  for  utter  picturesqueness  and  variety. 
Right  about  us  the  busy  wharves,  beyond  the 
swinging  water  full  of  reflections  and  colour, 
crowded  with  every  type  of  fishing  boat  and  coast- 
wise trader,  with  foreign  vessels  and  pleasure  craft. 
Then  the  opposite  wharves,  backed  by  warehouses 
and  factories  for  gluemaking,  these  again  by  the 
climbing  houses  and  bowering  trees,  and  above 
all  spire  on  spire  and  towers  among  them.  All 
shades  of  grey  and  tawny  and  red  mingled  in  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

city,  and  in  the  sky  a  few  fleecy  clouds  accentuated 
the  blue. 

An  old  man  was  walking  the  outer  edge  of  one 
wharf  leading  a  rowboat  by  a  rope,  much  as  a 
farmer  might  lead  a  cow  or  a  dog.  I  expected 
him  to  whistle  to  it. 

He  engineered  his  way  carefully  until  he 
reached  the  place  where  we  sat. 

"  Shall  we  get  up?  "  we  wanted  to  know.  But 
he  shook  his  head,  and  manipulated  rope  and  boat 
and  himself  without  trouble  past  us. 

"  Do  you  suppose  he's  exercising  it? "  Sister 
asked  me. 

"  Maybe  he's  training  it  so  it  can  go  alone." 

We  never  knew. 

Another  old  man,  who  had  been  watching  the 
fish  cleaning  for  a  long  while,  left  that  and  walked 
near  us.  He  had  a  delightfully  rolling  gait  and 
the  appearance  of  being  packed  full  of  the  remi- 
niscences of  countless  adventures  on  the  seven  seas, 
and  when  he  sat  down  and  began  to  stuff  tobacco 
into  a  bent,  black  pipe  we  hoped  that  he  might  be- 
come epic  for  our  benefit.  But  though  he  regarded 
us  steadily,  he  remained  silent. 

"  Try  to  look  like  a  wedding  guest  and  this  an- 
cient mariner  may  confide  in  you,"  I  begged 
Sister. 

But  she  couldn't  or  wouldn't,  and  so  the  three  of 
-*•  141  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

us  sat  and  looked  at  Gloucester,  and  smelt  the  salt 
fish  and  the  salt  sea,  and  said  never  a  word.  The 
old  man  wore  a  pair  of  sea-blue  trousers  and  a  shirt 
that  looked  like  weather-worn  canvas.  His  feet 
were  bare  and  on  his  head  was  a  battered  fisher- 
man's hat.  His  hands  and  one  forearm  were  blue 
with  tattooing,  while  his  eyes,  blue  too,  had  that 
deep  and  inward  look  that  you  see  in  the  eyes  of 
sailors  and  of  plainsmen. 

"  If  he  had  earrings,"  Sister  said,  as  we  walked 
away,  "he  would  have  been  a  creation  of  Steven- 
son. Maybe,  as  it  is,  he  was  only  a  figment  of  our 
imagination,  or  a  ghost  that  could  not  speak  till 
it  was  spoken  to." 

We  looked  back.  Sure  enough,  the  old  man 
had  disappeared.  Gloucester  bells  were  ringing 
the  noon  hour,  and  perhaps  he  had  hurried  off  to 
dinner;  but  it  seemed  quite  as  likely  that  he  had 
merely  returned  to  the  past  from  which  he 
had  come,  and  so  vanished  from  our  percep- 
tion. 

One  could  never  tire  of  that  harbour  view!  The 
hills  that  curve  down  at  the  left  to  Half  Moon 
Beach.  The  houses  and  sheds  that  huddle  close 
to  the  water,  the  infinite  shipping,  spick  and  span 
or  weatherbeaten  and  battered,  carrying  every  type 
of  rigging,  moving  by  sail  or  steam  or  gasoline 
(boats  run  by  gasoline  were  introduced  here  in 
-*-  142  -i- 


h^Kfsssr 

«si 


Gloucester  Towers 
from  Harbour  Cove 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

1900).  The  brick  walls  of  the  Town  Hall,  the 
mounting  spire  of  the  Universalist  Church  top- 
ping all  the  others,  the  fine  Colonial  houses  show- 
ing through  the  trees,  and  all  about  the  stir  and 
energy  of  the  industrious  water  edge. 

"  One  doesn't  wonder  that  Gloucester  speaks  of 
the  man  who  has  never  seen  the  sea  as  some  one 
who  c  never  saw  nothinV  "  I  remarked. 

Gloucester  is  the  city  of  the  schooner  as  New- 
buryport  was  of  the  clipper  ship.  Captain  Andrew 
Robinson  was  the  name  of  the  designer  and  builder 
of  the  first  schooner  ever  launched,  in  1713.  He 
had  been  more  or  less  jeered  at  as  a  visionary  by 
those  who  watched  the  vessel's  construction,  but 
when  she  slid  into  the  water  a  delighted  bystander 
cried  out,  "  Oh,  how  she  scoons!  " 

"  A  scooner  let  her  be,"  replied  Robinson,  and 
so  named  her,  breaking  a  bottle  of  rum  on  her 
bows.  She  proved  a  great  success,  and  before  long 
most  of  Gloucester's  shipbuilding  was  confined  to 
schooners,  a  type  of  vessel  that  excellently  met  the 
requirements  of  the  cod  and  halibut  fishers.  The 
clipper  and  the  frigate  have  gone,  but  the  schooner 
still  sails  on  every  sea. 

Eastern  Point  is  the  part  of  Gloucester  that  at- 
tracts the  summer  colony,  and  on  this  long, 
crooked,  rocky  peninsula  many  artists  and  writers 
have  settled.  It  stretches  south  from  East 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Gloucester,  the  road  hugging  the  harbour.  A 
mile  or  so  along  a  causeway  connects  the  Point 
with  Rocky  Neck,  and  here  too  are  wharves  and 
ships,  houses  and  studios. 

Sister  and  I  spent  a  day  tramping  over  and 
around  Eastern  Point,  taking  our  lunch  along,  and 
camping  with  it  on  the  stony  beach  where  the  surf 
broke  opposite  Webber's  Rock,  close  to  where 
Mother  Ann  sits  watching  her  ocean  view.  The 
old  stone  lady  is  remarkably  distinct,  a  grim  but 
kindly  chatelaine  carved  by  chance  in  the  brown 
rocks. 

This  furthest  end  of  the  Point  is  an  expanse  of 
flat,  bare  rock  alternating  with  thickets  of  odorous 
plants  and  berry  bushes.  Bobolinks  sang  here, 
song-sparrows  topped  every  little  tree  that  strug- 
gled higher  than  its  fellows.  The  air  is  so  satu- 
rated with  the  sea  and  with  bayberry  and  sweetfern 
that  it  seems  impossible  to  get  enough  of  it  into 
your  lungs.  You  want  to  hold  it,  to  take  it  home 
with  you,  to  breathe  nothing  else  ever!  Half- 
effaced  tracks  lead  through  the  thickets,  and  in  the 
centre  of  the  rounded  end  of  the  Point  a  pond  lies 
as  blue  as  any  sapphire,  a  pond  said  to  be  full  of 
pickerel. 

The  road  out  from  town  is  beautifully  shaded 
by  elms  and  there  are  charming  houses.  The  place 
is  simple,  however,  nothing  of  the  expensive  splen- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

dour  of  the  great  country  seats  of  Manchester  and 
Prides  Crossing  having  come  to  burden  the  stern 
aspect  of  nature,  where  rock  below  and  wind  above 
have  their  way  everywhere  except  for  the  tree- 
planted  strip  along  the  harbour. 

One  of  the  most  enchanting  of  these  summer 
homes  is  that  of  Cecilia  Beaux,  close  to  the  har- 
bour and  entirely  hidden  behind  a  thick  growth 
of  tupelo  trees,  a  small,  strong  tree  that  grows  all 
over  this  section  of  country  in  exposed  spots  where 
a  less  stout,  tenacious  plant  would  be  beaten  to 
shreds.  The  branches  of  this  curious  little  tree 
interlace  above  to  make  a  continuous  canopy,  and 
it  is  by  erratic  paths  under  this  green  roof  that 
you  reach  the  cottage,  shell-coloured,  of  brick 
and  roughcast,  a  charming  thing  of  cloisters  and 
arches  and  harmonious  relation  to  its  situation  and 
surroundings. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward  is  of  course 
intimately  associated  with  Gloucester,  where  she 
wrote  so  many  of  her  books,  and  where  she  drew 
much  of  her  inspiration.  She  too  lived  on  the 
Point.  Many  young  writers  and  many  young 
painters  find  temporary  studios  here,  and  many 
camp  out  in  the  summer  months  in  cottages  or 
under  tents. 

The  Hawthorne  Inn,  with  its  view  of  Glouces- 
ter across  the  harbour,  its  verandas  hanging  over 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  sea,  its  delightful,  rambling  construction, 
and  its  excellent  table,  is  as  good  a  place  as  you 
can  find  to  spend  the  summer,  if  you  are  deter- 
mined to  spend  it  in  a  hotel. 

We  took  our  little  ferryboat  back  to  the  town 
as  the  sun  was  setting,  making  as  splendid  a  com- 
motion in  the  sky  as  though  it  were  the  last  time 
it  meant  to  set,  and  so  could  afford  to  spend  itself. 
The  harbour  was  full  of  lights,  the  sky  of  colour. 
Out  on  the  breakwater  the  lighthouses  began  to  do 
their  night's  work,  and  gradually,  as  it  grew 
duskier  above,  the  stars  set  about  theirs.  A  young 
moon  hung  high  in  the  west. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  asked 
Sister.  "Just  sit  here  quietly  as  though  we  de- 
served it?  " 

And  sit  we  did,  while  the  little  boat  made  sev- 
eral trips  and  the  harbour  settled  down  for  the 
night 

Main  Street  in  the  evening  is  a  jolly  place,  with 
the  little  shops  busy  and  summer  people  in  white 
linens  jostling  the  native  Gloucesterites  on  the  nar- 
row pavements.  Gloucester  breeds  stout  and  ac- 
tive young  men,  and  preserves  its  old  ones  hale  and 
serene.  There  were  pretty,  dark,  foreign-looking 
girls  there  too,  arm  in  arm  with  the  young  men, 
laughing  as  they  strolled  for  the  pure  joy  of 
laughter.  Though  perhaps  the  young  June  night 
-*-  146-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  young  blood  had  something  to  do  with  their 
gay  spirits. 

Grog-shops  overlap  each  other  with  somewhat 
dismaying  frequency,  but  no  one  gets  drunk,  or  if 
any  one  does  he  must  be  battened  down  out  of 
sight.  The  town  is  as  orderly  as  it  is  neat,  going 
cheerfully  and  soberly  about  its  play  as  it  goes 
cheerfully  and  industriously  about  its  work. 

Busy  as  the  little  city  is,  and  everywhere  you 
get  the  feeling  that  it  is  thoroughly  occupied,  there 
is  no  bang  or  hurry  or  worry.  It  does  its  work, 
but  it  has  its  leisure  too.  From  the  wide,  unhast- 
ing  sea,  by  which  it  lives  in  a  double  sense,  it  has 
learnt  that  there  is  time  enough  in  each  hour,  and 
hours  enough  in  every  life.  Why  should  you  rush 
and  scurry  through  to-day,  when  to-morrow  may 
bring  you  to  the  business  of  eternity? 

Cape  Ann  extends  some  four  or  five  miles  be- 
yond Gloucester  to  Lands  End  and  Rockport.  Al- 
most opposite  Lands  End  is  Thatcher's  Island, 
with  its  twin-lights.  These  lights  are  the  last  you 
see  from  shipboard  when  on  your  way  to  Europe. 
The  island  was  given  its  name  under  tragic  cir- 
cumstances, as  far  back  as  1635. 

In  that  year  was  an  awful  tempest,  "  the  like  was 
never  in  this  place  known  in  the  memory  of  man, 
before  or  since,"  says  Hubbard,  the  historian.  It 
left  scars  on  land  that  were  visible  for  years,  great 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

trees  snapped  off  close  to  the  ground,  houses  turned 
over  and  blown  away,  and  out  at  sea  ship  after 
ship  met  disaster.  On  one  of  these  ships,  on  his 
way  to  Marblehead,  was  Anthony  Thatcher,  with 
his  wife  and  four  children,  also  his  cousin,  Par- 
son Avery,  with  his  wife  and  eight  children.  The 
letter  written  by  Thatcher  to  his  brother  Peter 
in  England  has  been  preserved  and  is  a  most  curi- 
ous and  touching  revelation  of  a  personality.  He 
begins  in  these  words : 

"  I  must  turn  my  drowned  pen  and  shaking 
hand  to  indite  this  story  of  such  sad  news  as  never 
before  this  happened  in  New  England. 

"  There  was  a  league  of  perpetual  friendship  be- 
tween my  cousin  Avery  and  myself,  never  to  for- 
sake each  other  to  the  death,  but  to  be  partakers 
of  each  other's  misery  or  welfare,  as  also  of  habi- 
tation, in  the  same  place." 

He  goes  on  to  relate  how  Avery  was  asked  to 
take  charge  of  the  pastorate  at  Marblehead,  and 
how  at  first  he  refused,  and  they  all  went  to  "  New- 
berry,"  because  the  men  in  Marblehead,  "  The 
most  being  fishermen,  were  something  loose  and 
remiss  in  their  behaviour."  But  finally  it  was  de- 
cided to  accept  the  invitation,  and  "  having  com- 
mended ourselves  to  God,  with  cheerful  hearts  we 
hoisted  sail." 

The  great  storm  burst  upon  them,  and  the  ship 
'-*-  148-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

was  flung  up  on  a  rock.  "  The  waves  came  furi- 
ously and  violently  over  us,  and  against  us ;  but  by 
reason  of  the  rock's  proportions  could  not  lift  us 
off,  but  beat  her  all  to  pieces.  Now  look  with  me 
upon  our  distress,  and  consider  my  misery,  who 
beheld  the  ship  broken,  the  water  in  her  and  vio- 
lently overwhelming  us,  my  goods  and  provisions 
swimming  in  the  sea,  my  friends  almost  drowned, 
and  mine  own  poor  children  so  untimely  (if  I 
may  term  it  so  without  offence)  before  mine  eyes 
drowned." 

Drowned  they  were,  every  soul  of  them  except 
Thatcher's  wife  and  he  himself.  The  ship  went 
to  pieces  and  in  the  morning,  wet,  cold,  almost 
naked,  the  bereft  man  hunted  for  his  dead,  but 
found  nothing,  save,  later,  his  cousin's  dead 
daughter. 

"  Now  came  to  my  remembrance  the  time  and 
manner  how  and  when  I  last  saw  and  left  my  chil- 
dren and  friends.  One  was  severed  from  me  sit- 
ting on  the  rock  at  my  feet,  the  other  three  in  the 
pinnace;  my  little  babe  (ah,  poor  Peter)  sitting 
in  his  sister  Edith's  arms,  who  to  the  uttermost  of 
her  powers  sheltered  him  from  the  waters;  my 
poor  William  standing  close  unto  them,  all  three 
of  them  looking  ruefully  on  me  on  the  rock,  their 
very  countenances  calling  unto  me  to  help  them; 
whom  I  could  not  go  unto,  neither  could  they 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

come  at  me,  neither  would  the  merciless  waves  al- 
low me  space  or  time  to  use  any  means  at  all, 
either  to  help  them  or  to  help  myself.  Oh,  I  yet 
see  their  cheeks,  poor  silent  lambs,  pleading  pity 
and  help  at  my  hands.  Then,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
consider  the  loss  of  my  dear  friends,  with  the  spoil- 
ing and  loss  of  all  our  goods  and  provisions,  my- 
self cast  upon  an  unknown  land,  in  a  wilder- 
ness. .  .  .  ' 

In  that  wilderness  husband  and  wife  remained 
"until  the  Monday  following;  when  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  a  boat  that  came  that 
way,  we  went  off  that  desolate  island,  which  I 
named,  after  my  name,  Thatcher's  Woe,  and  the 
rock,  Avery  his  Fall,  to  the  end  that  their  fall  and 
loss,  and  mine  own,  might  be  had  in  perpetual  re- 
membrance. In  the  isle  lieth  buried  the  body  of 
my  cousin's  eldest  daughter,  whom  I  found  dead 
on  the  shore." 

Whittier  wrote  a  poem,  "  Swan  Song  of  Parson 
Avery,"  on  the  tragedy,  but  it  does  not  approach, 
either  in  graphic  or  literary  interest,  the  letter 
written  by  the  survivor. 

Some  ancient  graves  are  still  to  be  found  on 
the  western  end  of  Thatcher's  Island,  a  high  cliff 
that  appears  to  be  crumbling  away  with  the  pass- 
ing years,  under  the  terrific  onslaughts  of  the  wind 
and  waves.  The  two  lighthouses  are  built  of  gran- 
-H-  150-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ite  and  are  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  with 
lenses  of  great  size  and  power,  for  the  station  is 
one  of  the  most  important  on  the  whole  coast  of 
the  United  States. 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  to  Cape  Ann,  and 
trolleys  take  you  to  most  of  it.  Sister  and  I  went 
to  Rockport  one  soft  summer  morning  and  idled 
about  its  sleepy  streets.  Rockport  is  calmly  and 
stolidly  occupied  with  taking  chunks  out  of  the 
cape,  beautiful  dark-grey  cubes  that  go  to  the 
building  of  many  city  halls  and  post  offices.  They 
do  some  fishing  too,  for  cod  and  halibut  insist  on 
spending  a  good  deal  of  their  time  nosing  pretty 
close  to  Ann. 

The  extraordinary  vividness  of  the  wild  flowers, 
and  the  joyous  profusion  of  those  that  grow  in 
white-fenced  gardens  stirred  us  to  new  enthusiasm. 
Perhaps  there  is  something  peculiarly  nourishing 
in  granite,  for  there  seems  little  else  to  riot  on 
at  this  extreme  tip  of  our  country,  and  riot  these 
plants  and  flowers  do.  Such  intense  colouring  I 
have  found  on  the  desert  in  Arizona,  where  sun 
and  sand  and  the  night  dew  had  somehow  con- 
trived to  get  transformed  into  a  small  and  radiant 
blossom.  And  here,  on  this  stiff  rock,  wet  with 
sea  wind,  we  found  a  brilliance  as  amazing. 

The  town  has  no  Old  South  Church,  in  which  it 
is  probably  unique  among  old  New  England  towns, 
-*- 151  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

but  it  has  an  Old  White  Church,  particularly  no- 
ticeable where  so  much  of  the  town  is  built  out 
of  the  granite  it  quarries.  The  Wren  tower  is 
beautiful,  as  are  the  pilasters  that  decorate  the 
front,  and  the  church  has  its  bit  of  history  in  addi- 
tion. It  was  fired  on  by  the  British  in  1814,  and 
you  can  see  the  cannon  that  did  the  deed  before 
the  Town  Hall. 

People  who  can't  walk  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  on 
Cape  Ann,  for  it  is  so  wonderful  a  place  to  tramp 
over.  You  feel  more  active  for  every  hour  you 
stay  on  it,  and  Sister  and  I  had  long  since  acquired 
complete  command  over  our  legs.  They  went 
wherever  our  spirits  led,  which  was  far,  and  came 
back  as  stout  and  hale  as  at  the  start.  Now  we 
found  a  lovely  lane,  grassy  as  a  fair  green,  roofed 
and  sided  by  those  interwoven  tupelo  trees,  and 
full  of  birds  and  butterflies.  Again  we  found  our- 
selves marching  with  the  sea  on  the  wild  coast, 
that  was  as  deserted  as  when  the  two  sons,  of  whom 
they  tell  in  Pigeon  Cove,  fled  thither  with  their 
old  mother  to  escape  the  witchcraft  delusion  in 
Salem,  and  built  the  old  house  that  still  stands,  and 
is  called  to  this  day  the  Witch  House.  There  is 
one  remarkable  spot  that  can  be  reached  only  on 
foot,  and  that  after  considerable  search  and  diffi- 
culty, a  place  practically  no  one  visits.  It  is  called 
Dogtown  and  is  unique.  But  say  walk  to  the  aver- 
-j-  152  •»- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

age  American,  and  add  six  miles,  and  he  or  she, 
in  that  soothing,  nervously  smiling  way  that  is 
popularly  supposed  to  work  best  with  maniacs, 
will  gently  edge  away,  and  leave  you. 

Sister  and  I  made  up  our  minds  that  we  would 
get  to  Dogtown,  and  that  we  would  not  take  a 
guide.  For  though  Sister  didn't  mind  asking  the 
way  to  anywhere,  as  I  did,  she  objected  quite  as 
much  to  being  shown  it. 

In  the  centre  of  the  promontory  there  is  a  high 
plateau,  and  here,  back  in  Revolutionary  days,  a 
number  of  non-combatants  went  to  live,  partly  to 
get  safely  from  the  coast,  with  its  shooting  Brit- 
ishers, partly  because  they  were  able  to  do  a  little 
farming  and  a  good  deal  of  berry  picking.  M6st 
of  these  dwellers  in  Dogtown  were  grass  or  real 
widows,  and  each  of  these  women  had  a  dog  for 
companionship  and  protection.  Hence  the  name 
of  this  little  settlement. 

Many  of  these  women  lived  on  here,  after  the 
end  of  the  war,  getting  older  and  queerer,  until 
the  town  came  to  be  looked  on  by  young  people 
especially  as  almost  haunted.  And  after  the  last 
of  the  old  creatures  had  died  or  wandered  away, 
no  one  came  to  the  village,  which  gradually  fell 
to  pieces. 

After  some  false  turns  we  got  to  the  curious 
old  place,  nothing  now  but  cellars,  traces  of  old 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

walls,  tumbled-in  wells  and  tumbled-down  chim- 
neys. It  is  all  crumbling,  silent,  weed-grown,  in- 
tensely deserted. 

"  I  should  be  scared  to  death  here  after  sun- 
down," Sister  said,  as  we  moved  softly  through  this 
desertion.  Even  in  the  light  of  day,  we  jumped 
when  a  stone  rattled  behind  us.  Where,  a  short 
distance  back  in  the  woods,  the  loneliness  was  a 
delight,  and  friendly  Nature  all  the  friendlier  be- 
cause she  was  so  undisturbed,  here,  where  human 
beings  had  once  gone  about  their  daily  affairs,  the 
fact  that  they  were  no  longer  there  had  something 
appalling  in  it. 

"  Remember  the  story  of  the  sunken  City  of  Ys, 
whose  bells  were  said  to  ring  beneath  the  water?  " 
I  asked,  as  we  stood  and  looked  about  us  in  the 
empty  place  in  the  hush  of  the  afternoon.  "  I 
wonder  if  here,  at  night,  the  dogs  howl?" 

Sister  shivered  and  laughed. 

"  Remember  how  Bliss  Carman  describes  that 
city?  "  she  asked.  And  I  told  her  to  go  ahead. 

"  Once  of  old  there  stood  a  fabled  city 

By  the  Breton  Sea 
Towered  and  belled  and  flagged  and  wreathed 

and  pennoned 

For  the  pomp  of  Yuletide  revelry; 
All  its  folk,  adventurous,  sea-daring, 
Gay  as  gay  could  be." 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  The  folk  here  were  probably  not  gay,"  I  re- 
marked, "  though  sea-daring  they  or  theirs  cer- 
tainly were.  What  a  very  different  description  a 
poet  would  have  to  give  this  place,  however." 

For  not  only  curious  old  Dogtown,  but  the  whole 
plateau,  is  uncanny  and  weird.  Here  once  a 
glacier  had  its  bed,  and  we  found  traces  of  the 
old  moraines,  bouldery  streams  down  which  the 
ice  went  marching  to  the  sea.  All  over  the  plateau 
are  huge,  fantastic  rocks,  worn  by  frost  and 
gnawed  by  the  centuries  into  strange  shapes  that 
resemble  the  animals  of  prehistoric  days,  lurking 
monsters  that  sometimes  look  half  human.  One 
of  these  formations  has  been  named  the  Whale's 
Jaws,  and  this  you  can  buy  on  postcards,  but  it 
looks  more  impressive  as  you  pass  it  on  your  way 
to  Dogtown,  a  great,  gaping,  craggy  brute  that 
reaches  up  out  of  the  earth  for  something  to 
close  on. 

We  were  not  sure  enough  of  our  path  to  linger 
too  long,  and  we  didn't  want  to  run  the  risk  of 
getting  confused  in  that  place  of  ghosts  and  mon- 
sters. So  we  presently  started  back  again  through 
the  sweet-smelling  woods. 

"  You  know,  if  they  had  that  place  out  West," 
I  told  Sister,  "  there  would  be  reams  of  advertis- 
ing about  it,  every  rock  would  have  a  name  tagged 
to  it,  automobiles  would  run  out  regularly,  and 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

guides  would  spout  at  so  much  an  hour.  I  like 
this  way  best." 

"  So  do  I.  So  far,  I've  never  met  any  one  who 
has  been  here,  though  Colonel  Higginson  and 
others  have  written  about  it.  The  New  England 
reticence  has  points  that  are  distinctly  admirable. 
I  think  anything  worth  seeing  ought  to  be  hard  to 
come  by,  otherwise  it  is  desecrated.  Look  at  the 
mountains  up  which  cars  are  run!  Gone  is  their 
awful  splendour.  They  are  like  a  lion  in  a  cage 
with  a  man  sitting  on  his  head,  and  even  though 
you  may  admire  the  man,  you  despise  the  lion." 

Evening  was  coming  on  slowly  as  we  reached 
Gloucester  again.  Behind  us  lay  those  strange 
stone  monsters,  seeming  to  be  waiting  for  a  whisper 
that  would  stir  them  into  life.  We  felt  as  though 
we  had  been  trespassing  in  another  world. 

"  Come  in  here  and  I'll  treat  you  to  an  ice-cream 
soda,"  Sister  said  munificently.  "  We've  had 
enough  of  spooks." 

Next  day  we  were  to  leave  the  old  town  and 
reach  Marblehead,  taking  in  Boston  en  route, 
which  made  it  considerably  roundabout.  But  we 
had  to  get  to  Boston,  even  though  it  was  Sunday. 
Now,  Sunday  in  New  England  is  not  like  other 
days  even  yet.  There's  not  a  hint  of  the  Continen' 
tal  to  it,  though  it  has  struggled  quite  a  distance 
from  the  Puritan.  The  trains  are  still  deeply  im- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

bued  with  the  old  idea  of  not  doing  any  work 
on  the  seventh  day,  and  to  use  them  in  getting  from 
one  town  to  another  on  Sunday  is  a  hazardous  and 
lengthy  business.  We  knew  that  we  should  spend 
as  much  of  the  day  getting  to  Boston  and  back  to 
Marblehead  as  though  we  were  going  to  Chicago, 
even  though  we  managed  to  save  the  night.  So 
we  ate  a  leisurely  supper  and  went  early  to  bed. 

We  leaned  out  of  the  window  for  a  last,  en- 
chanting view  of  the  city  and  its  harbour,  lighted 
by  the  moon.  I  was  about  to  say,  "  I  do  certainly 
hate  to  leave  this  darling  town,"  when  Sister 
turned  to  me. 

"  I  do  certainly  hate  to  leave  this  darling  town," 
she  said. 

It  is  little  things  like  that  over  which  long  dis- 
putes arise  as  to  whether  or  not  mind  reading  and 
thought  transference  can  exist. 

"  You  can  call  it  coincidence  if  you  like,"  de- 
clares the  pro,  "  but  let  me  tell  you  .  .  .  ' 

"  Perfect  nonsense,"  protests  the  con,  waving 
the  suggestion  aside.  "  Given  something  about 
which  every  one  must  be  agreed,  what  more 
natural.  .  .  .  ' 

But  Sister  and  I,  being  sleepy,  only  nodded  and 
turned  in. 


157 


Marblehead 


CHAPTER  VII 

Marblehead 

ARBLEHEAD  never  bothered  over- 
much with  the  Puritan  conception  of  the 
proper  way  to  live.  When  Salem  was  as 
good  as  good  could  be,  beating  the  dan- 
gerous Quakers  from  out  her  spotless  territory,  and 
making  new  rules  and  living  up  to  them  every  day 
of  the  week,  when  Ipswich  earned  a  holy  penny 
by  fining  the  dames  who  wore  silk  bonnets,  and 
the  other  towns  about  made  things  as  uncomfort- 
able in  this  world  as  their  ingenuity  could  com- 
pass, in  order  to  make  sure  of  front  seats  in  the 
world  to  come,  why,  Marblehead  welcomed  dark 
pirates  openly,  gave  them  grog  to  drink  and  pig- 
tail tobacco  to  smoke,  and  sat  in  taverns  talking 
over  ways  and  means  for  smuggling  in  another 
cargo  of  forbidden  merchandise. 

The  Puritan  code  insisted  that  only  church 
members  should  dispense  the  law,  and  since  Mar- 
blehead had  no  such  folk,  it  very  contentedly  set- 
tled the  matter  by  dispensing  with  the  law  itself. 
The  boys  who  were  not  out  with  the  men  in  the 
fishing  boats  or  other  craft  that  had  a  more  thrill- 
-*- 161  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

ing  pursuit,  spent  their  leisure,  which  was  consid- 
erable, in  stoning  any  unwary  stranger  who  drove 
over  from  the  preserves  of  the  saintly  to  take  a  look 
at  this  devil's  corner.  No  wonder  that  Parson 
Avery  hesitated  to  accept  the  adventure  of  preach- 
ing to  these  fishermen,  "  somewhat  loose  and  remiss 
in  their  behaviour."  The  wreck  at  Thatcher's 
Woe  settled  the  matter  for  him;  as  for  Marble- 
head,  it  continued  wholeheartedly  to  be  remiss 
and  loose  for  I  don't  know  how  much  longer. 

A  rough  village  of  huts  clamped  down  to  the 
rocks  and  hugging  its  fine  harbour,  such  was  Mar- 
blehead  for  many  years.  The  huts  grew  bigger 
and  finer,  the  narrow  footways  broadened  a  trifle, 
but  kept  the  devious  turns  and  abrupt  ups  and 
downs  with  which  they  began — so  abrupt  that  even 
to-day  many  a  Marblehead  lane  has  to  resort  to 
steps  to  get  itself  and  its  traveller  where  it  would 
go.  And  now  the  town  is  frankly  given  over  to 
the  vacation  spirit.  It  plays  with  sea  to  the  same 
extent  that  Gloucester  works  with  it,  which  is 
pretty  continuously.  Its  harbour  is  crowded  with 
beautiful  yachts,  with  every  manner  of  boat  that 
sails  or  steams  or  gasolines  for  pleasure.  Here 
the  Eastern  and  Corinthian  Yacht  Clubs  have 
built  their  splendid  homes,  and  here  the  summer 
is  marked  by  one  famous  yacht  race  after  another. 
Here  too  is  one  of  the  biggest  aeroplane  plants  in 
-»- 162  •*-' 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

America,  and  the  Marbleheader  does  not  turn  that 
head  of  his  when  the  whirr  of  a  flyer's  engine  sings 
by  over  him;  he's  too  used  to  the  pesky  thing! 

People  who  live  in  Marblehead  become  passion- 
ately attached  to  it.  I  met  one  of  these  fortunate 
persons,  a  charming  woman  with  a  faint  trace  of 
the  peculiar  Marblehead  dialect  in  her  speech. 
Many  years  have  passed  over  her  head,  though 
she  appears  scarcely  to  have  left  middle-age 
behind. 

"  I  never  went  out  of  Marblehead  but  for  a  two 
days'  trip  to  Boston  when  I  was  married,"  she  said. 
"  Never  for  even  a  day,  till  last  winter,  when  I 
had  to  go  to  Boston  again  for  an  operation,  and 
we  spent  the  winter  there.  Glad  I  was  to  get  back 
here  again." 

She  spoke  of  a  man,  an  old  friend,  who  had 
married  against  her  will. 

"  I  wanted  him  to  marry  one  of  the  sweetest,  fin- 
est girls  in  Marblehead,"  she  asserted.  "  Well, 
I've  had  my  revenge.  He  has  to  live  away  from 
the  town,  poor  fellow." 

There  is  nothing  quainter  to  be  found  in  our 
country  than  this  grey  sea-town  with  its  incredibly 
tangled  streets.  Never  does  the  stranger  know 
where  he  will  end  when  he  sets  forth  to  follow 
one  of  them.  Sister  and  I  found  ourselves  walk- 
ing briskly  away  from  the  place  we  wanted  to  go 
-M63-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

to  oftener  than  not.  Luckily  the  water  exists,  for 
when  you  strike  it  you  have  a  chance  to  take  new 
bearings,  and  in  time  we  got  so  that  we  could  lay  a 
course  by  the  tower  of  Abbott  Hall,  which  dom- 
inates the  entire  village.  We  would  climb  up  to  it 
to  get  a  fresh  start,  and  usually  found  that  we  were 
approaching  it  from  another  direction  than  the  one 
we  imagined.  It  was  a  sort  of  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land progress,  the  thing  being  to  go  where  you 
knew  you  shouldn't  in  order  to  get  where  you 
wanted  to  be. 

Abbott  Hall  possesses  a  fine  tower  whose  out- 
line accentuates  and  points  the  whole  sharp  up- 
ward slope  of  the  town,  but  it  is  unfortunately  an 
ugly  red  structure  built  at  the  worst  time  for 
American  architecture,  when  the  pretentious  pe- 
riod came  to  supersede  the  noble  simplicity  of  Co- 
lonial days  and  those  immediately  following,  when 
so  many  excellent  houses  and  churches  adequately 
incarnated  the  ideas  of  home  and  worship. 

The  town  offices  and  a  public  library,  where 
there  is  an  interesting  collection  of  ancient  volumes 
of  historical  value,  are  housed  here,  and  there  is 
also  the  original  canvas  of  the  "  Spirit  of  '76." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  there  really  is  such  a 
painting? "  demanded  Sister.  "  After  all  the 
chromos  and  lithographs  and  the  groups  marching 
in  patriotic  processions  that  I've  looked  upon,  to 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

find,  stowed  away  on  this  hill-top  and  in  this  dark- 
red,  decorated  structure,  the  actual  thing  itself!  " 

There  it  was,  a  large  canvas  with  the  three  well- 
known  figures  stepping  eternally  forward.  The 
colour  is  bad — it  was  long  before  the  days  of  the 
plein-air  movement — but  the  thing  has  a  wonder- 
ful go  and  life  to  it.  There  is  a  spiritual  exalta- 
tion in  the  three  faces,  a  resistless  forward  swing 
to  the  march  of  the  three  bodies — the  title  is  jus- 
tified. 

Marblehead  is  just  the  opposite  of  Beverly. 
There  the  new  has  overlaid  the  old,  crowded  it  out 
of  existence.  Here  the  old  remains  toughly  in 
position.  Almost  all  the  old  houses  still  stick  to 
their  rocks,  and  the  streets  are  the  same;  were  the 
dead  in  Burial  Hill  to  clamber  out  of  the  rocky 
niches  where  they  sleep  within  sound  of  the  sea 
they  loved,  they  would  have  little  trouble  finding 
their  old  homes.  This  hill  is  a  good  place  to  go 
to  for  an  outlook  over  the  town,  especially  the 
part  still  called  Barnegat,  the  special  haunt  of  the 
old-time  pirates. 

Adjoining  the  graveyard  is  the  house  of  old 
John  Dimond,  the  wizard,  whose  granddaughter, 
Moll  Pitcher,  the  famous  fortune  teller  of  Lynn, 
was  born  there.  The  house,  called  the  Old  Brig, 
is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  simple  gambrel-roofed 
home  of  the  well-to-do  but  not  aristocratic  fisher- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

man.  It  stands  firmly  on  its  green  slope,  looking 
out  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  opposite,  so  varied 
are  Marblehead  contours,  at  the  shallow  waters  of 
Barnegat  Cove,  and  is  as  snowy  white  and  neat  as 
any  of  the  yachts  that  dip  to  the  wave. 

Old  Dimond  was  known  to  be  a  wizard  for  vari- 
ous reasons,  but  particularly  for  his  habit  of  "  beat- 
ing about "  among  the  graves  of  Burial  Hill  dur- 
ing a  storm,  especially  at  night,  when  thunder 
crashed  and  lightning  blazed,  and  the  wind 
howled  like  a  fiend.  Possibly,  thought  the  fisher- 
folk  of  the  town,  it  was  truly  a  fiend  and  not  mere 
wind  that  did  the  howling. 

Above  the  sounds,  whether  of  the  elements  or 
not,  the  voice  of  John  Dimond  rose  in  hoarse  com- 
mands. Far  away  on  the  tempest-tossed  sea  sailors 
from  Marblehead  were  struggling  to  bring  their 
ships  to  port.  And  there,  among  the  graves,  Wiz- 
ard Dimond  shouted  commands  to  them,  directing 
the  invisible  helmsman,  ordering  the  men  to  make 
or  shorten  sail,  bringing  the  vessels  safe  to  port  as 
no  pilot  aboard  the  rocking  decks  could  do. 

But  Moll's  fame  dimmed  that  of  her  grand- 
father completely,  and  it  is  as  her  birthplace  the 
Brig  is  known.  This  remarkable  woman,  who 
died  in  1813,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  was  visited 
for  over  fifty  years  by  literally  thousands,  rich, 
poor,  ignorant,  and  wise,  who  consulted  her  on 


&>• -IT  V^<y  .  v*""'  i    M-tf  '        '  J?VT'  "      *  :~*^-,^ 


^•«^uiW^v^^i^!^^i^^i^«rs«-5- 
.-^.--r  ~Su:':"ir .  ,  TJJ^.-     ".«.       -  r 


•t+,*f*    1      ••VWlli.tf., 


Mansions  and  Abbott  Hall 
Marblehead 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

every  affair  of  life  and  death.  She  made  predic- 
tions for  ten  and  twenty  years  ahead  that  are  said 
to  have  been  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  She  foretold 
the  doom  of  ships  that  never  returned,  and  the 
happy  homing  of  others  that  had  been  despaired  of. 

People  who  knew  her  spoke  of  her  as  having  a 
countenance  of  habitual  sadness,  as  of  one  who 
saw  too  far  into  the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the  world. 
All  sorts  of  confidences  were  made  her,  all  sorts 
of  questions  asked  her.  Crime  could  not  hide  it- 
self in  the  darkest  heart  so  deeply  but  that  her  eyes 
could  find  it,  and  the  criminal,  meeting  that  gaze, 
knew  his  secret  was  his  no  longer. 

But  once  this  weird  sister  was  a  little  child,  and 
then  she  played  on  the  green  slope  of  the  Brig's 
yard,  beside  the  stone  graves  where  her  grand- 
father performed  his  magic  rites. 

Wander  down  Orne  Street  from  the  Brig  but 
a  little  way  and  you  come  to  the  Spite  House,  now 
falling  to  decay,  a  grey,  shingled  structure  with  a 
high  blank  side.  The  very  nature  of  the  quarrel 
that  has  given  its  name  to  the  old  place  is  forgotten, 
the  mere  fact  remains  and  will  remain  while  the 
rooftree  holds. 

Marblehead  is  given  to  a  custom  quite  general 

in  New  England  towns,  that  of  picking  a  house  up 

bodily  and  walking  away  with  it  to  another  part 

of  the  town,  there  to  settle  it  once  more.    Only, 

-»•  167-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

since  Marblehead  resembles  a  patchwork  quilt 
rather  than  an  ordinary  town,  the  houses  built  to 
fit  into  one  spot  naturally  won't  do  the  same  for 
another,  so  that  you  are  constantly  running  into 
buildings  that  are  all  askew  from  their  neighbours, 
that  jut  out  curiously  into  the  narrow  street,  or  that 
turn  their  backs  squarely  on  you  and  seem  to  be 
trying  to  scramble  out  of  sight.  Sometimes  these 
strayed  houses  have  had  to  have  corners  sliced  off 
to  allow  progress  through  the  street.  And  some 
that  are  still  on  their  original  foundations  have 
had  to  suffer  in  the  same  way — notably  the  one 
known  as  the  Old  Lafayette  House,  which  has  had 
a  great  three-cornered  portion  of  the  lower  story 
cut  away,  in  order  that  Lafayette  in  his  coach 
might  get  through  the  street  and  round  the  corner 
on  which  it  stands. 

Over  toward  the  Barnegat  section  stands  the  fine 
three-story  house  where  Elbridge  Gerry  was  born, 
one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence. The  term  Gerrymander  owes  itself  to 
Gerry's  action,  as  Governor  of  Massachusetts  in 
1 810-12,  in  dividing  the  state  up  into  senatorial 
districts  that  would  serve  to  keep  his  party  in 
power. 

Another  famous  spot  in  this  part  of  town  is  now 
the  site  of  Fountain  Park.  Here  of  old  was  the 
Fountain  Inn,  where  Agnes  Surriage  worked, 
'-1-168-1- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

orphan  daughter  of  a  sailor  lost  at  sea.  Hither 
came  the  handsome  and  gallant  Sir  Harry  Frank- 
land,  Collector  of  the  Port  for  Boston,  to  tarry 
for  dinner  and  a  bowl  of  punch.  And  then  fate 
took  her  accustomed  hand  in  the  game. 

Agnes  was  a  child  of  fifteen,  but  loveliest  of 
youthful  maidens,  and  even  as  she  scrubbed  the 
stairs  her  beauty  shone  like  a  jewel  amid  rubbish. 
Harry  saw  her  and  decided  that  she  was  no  scrub- 
girl.  He  had  money  and  a  romantic  spirit,  and 
then  and  there  proposed  to  the  girl  that  she  go  to  a 
school  in  Boston  and  learn  how  to  be  a  lady.  Agnes 
accepted,  with  a  warm  and  joyous  delight  that 
were  characteristic  of  her  through  life. 

When  Sir  Harry  saw  her  again  she  had  bloomed 
into  a  rare  and  exquisite  woman,  with  a  mind  as 
fine  as  her  figure  was  perfect.  With  the  result 
that  the  man  fell  desperately  in  love,  but  not  so 
desperately  that  he  proposed  marriage.  Agnes 
was  made  for  love,  however,  and  recognized  her 
destiny  without  scruple.  She  gave  herself  frankly 
and  openly,  but  was  obliged  to  leave  Boston  and 
find  some  more  secluded  place.  Harry  built  a  fine 
great  house  for  her  in  Hopkinton,  therefore,  and 
there  the  two  of  them  lived  a  happy  and  adoring 
life  for  years,  finally  going  to  Lisbon,  Portugal, 
where  people  did  not  bother  about  their 
relation. 

-*-  169-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

In  the  great  earthquake  of  1755  Sir  Harry  was 
buried  under  a  fallen  wall.  But  Agnes  dug  him 
out  and  saved  his  life,  almost  killing  herself  in 
the  labour.  This  was  too  much  for  the  lover,  who 
had  always  shied  at  marriage  before.  Agnes  be- 
came Lady  Frankland,  and  the  fairy-tale  romance 
ended  in  true  fairy-tale  fashion. 

The  beauty  of  the  views  at  this  end  are  as  fresh 
and  fair  as  Agnes'  own.  Sister  and  I  found  Foun- 
tain Park,  with  its  benches  thrust  into  nooks  of 
the  rock,  or  its  patches  of  grass  where  grass  could 
grow,  a  place  easier  to  get  to  than  to  get  away 
from,  and  this  though  you  must  climb  your  way 
up  to  it. 

Blue  day  or  grey  day,  or  when  the  wind  blows 
and  the  rain  turns  the  water  dark,  the  view  across 
the  narrow  harbour  with  Marblehead  Neck  op- 
posite covered  with  pretty  summer  homes,  clubs, 
and  hotels,  and  the  wide  reach  of  the  outer  har- 
bour opening  to  the  sea,  with  scattered  rocks  that 
fret  the  flowing  water  into  foam,  is  an  untiring 
delight.  Close  in  the  tide  fills  or  empties  Little 
Harbour,  and  either  way  it  is  beautiful,  for  this 
clean  and  rock-strewn  coast  has  no  unsightly  mud- 
flats to  reveal  at  low  water.  Climb  down  when 
the  tide  goes  out  and  look  into  the  little  pools  left 
behind.  They  are  full  of  the  most  filmy  and 
brilliant  seaweeds,  of  little  crabs  and  snails  cart- 
-»-  170-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

ing  their  grey  and  pearly  shells  about,  much  as 
Marblehead  men  go  carting  their  grey  houses. 
There  too  are  the  charming  sea-anemones,  waving 
their  petal-like  arms,  and  broad  frondy  leaves  that 
look  like  tropic  growths.  Interested  in  this  ocean 
world  you  forget  to  watch  out  for  the  dancing 
waves,  and  presently  a  handful  of  water  is  flung 
in  your  face,  biff! 

That's  what  happened  to  me,  anyway,  to  the 
unconcealed  amusement  of  Sister,  who  sat  back, 
a  crab  in  each  hand,  and  freely  laughed  at  my  be- 
wildered gaspings. 

"  It's  the  unexpectedness  of  the  sea  that  is  one 
of  its  chief  delights,  isn't  it?  "  she  demanded.  "  Its 
unaccountable  mystery,  you  know.  I  guess  the  tide 
really  is  coming  in,  and  we'd  better  scramble  back 
again  where  it's  safe."  Which  we  did. 

There  are  no  old  wharves  in  Marblehead.  Of 
course,  ships  were  built  in  the  shipbuilding  days, 
but  they  were  built  on  open  ways.  Then  that  part 
of  town,  up  near  the  harbour's  head,  or  foot  it  may 
be,  the  part  farthest  from  the  mouth  certainly,  was 
a  risky  place  to  visit  after  nightfall  unless  you  had 
a  gun  in  your  pocket  and  were  able  to  use  it.  Now 
it  is  in  that  section  that  Burgess  and  Curtiss  have 
their  aeroplane  plant,  and  if  you  are  lucky  enough 
you  can  see  the  flyers  being  built,  in  the  sheds 
where  a  few  years  ago  the  Burgess  Company  was 

-+•  171  +- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

making  yachts  and  schooners  for  the  coastwise 
trade. 

We  saw  one  of  the  machines  being  tried  in  the 
shed,  preparatory  to  the  next  day's  first  flight  in 
the  open.  There  it  hung,  anchored  and  straining, 
like  a  huge  wild  bird  in  a  cage,  its  engine  hum- 
ming and  singing,  its  planes  vibrating  slightly,  a 
thing  to  send  the  imagination  soaring. 

Practically  the  whole  of  Marblehead  being  old, 
there  is  no  special  quarter  to  visit.  It  is  an  en- 
chantment of  the  past,  nothing  modern  in  it,  ex- 
cept this  most  modern  of  things,  the  aeroplane. 
The  contrast  is  awakening,  and  you  come  out  of 
the  sheds  where  immense  models  for  England  to 
use  in  the  great  war  are  being  built,  to  ramble 
down  the  narrow  lanes  or  get  caught  in  a  blind 
alley,  or  to  inquire  your  way  at  some  ancient  and 
beautiful  door,  all  of  which  belong  to  a  past 
century. 

There  are  two  particularly  beautiful  old  houses 
in  the  town,  fortunately  in  an  excellent  state  of 
preservation.  One  of  these  is  now  the  property  of 
the  Historical  Society,  and  is  known  as  the  Lee 
Mansion,  built  in  1768.  No  finer  Colonial  hall 
exists  than  the  one  that  meets  you  royally  as 
you  enter  through  the  broad  doorway,  and  the 
flight  of  stairs  is  noble.  On  this  stair  Lafayette 
stood  and  made  a  speech  to  a  group  of  distin- 
-»•  172  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

guished  personages.  It  must  have  been  a  splen- 
did sight — the  Frenchman,  used  as  he  was  to 
courts  and  the  trappings  of  an  age  that  rev- 
elled in  ornamentation,  never  stood  in  a  place 
more  perfect  in  its  kind  than  that  stately  pan- 
elled hall  with  its  picture  paper,  its  beautifully 
carved  newel  post  and  balustrade,  its  breadth 
and  calmness  and  dignity.  The  rooms  are  empty 
and  echoing  now  save  for  a  few  pieces  of  fine  old 
furniture,  but  the  classical  proportions  and  the  ex- 
quisite handwork  on  fireplaces  and  over  doors, 
the  carved  cornices  of  white  pine,  the  deep  window 
cavities,  and  the  splendid  size  of  the  windows 
themselves,  all  these  make  the  great  house  seem 
complete  even  though  the  paraphernalia  of  every- 
day life  has  vanished. 

On  the  same  street  and  but  a  few  doors  up  is 
another  Lee  mansion.  This  was  built  in  1745  by 
the  founder  of  the  Lee  family,  himself  an  archi- 
tect, and  it  is  as  beautiful,  though  not  so  mag- 
nificent as  the  second  house.  This  is  privately 
owned  and  is  filled  with  rare  old  pieces  of  Colonial 
furniture,  glass,  china,  and  ornaments,  hand-woven 
rugs  and  bedspreads,  all  the  best  of  the  household 
art  of  the  period.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ballard,  long  of 
Marblehead,  collect  and  sell  these  pieces  with  the 
knowledge  and  taste  of  the  connoisseur.  A  very 
fine  Italian  picture  paper  showing  the  influence  of 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  Greek  invasion  into  Italy  adorns  one  of  the 
rooms.  It  was  hung  in  1789,  but  is  itself  older 
than  that. 

In  these  two  houses  you  are  not  only  surrounded 
with  the  very  material  of  Colonial  days,  you  can 
not  only  tread  its  secret  stairway  and  sit  within 
the  huge  spread  of  its  kitchen  fireplace,  where  a 
whole  sheep  might  easily  be  roasting,  but  you  find 
its  spirit  too,  for  those  who  live  in  the  one  house, 
and  those  who  take  care  of  the  other,  have  almost 
ceased  to  realise  that  beyond  their  doors  lies  a  very 
different  world.  Their  talk  is  all  of  the  past,  they 
are  full  of  strange  old  tales  and  anecdotes,  and 
Sister  and  I,  sitting  in  two  deep  Colonial  chairs, 
with  the  picture  paper  telling  its  colourful  story 
of  a  some  romantic  Turkish  place  that  vanished 
ages  since,  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  dream,  a  dream 
that  was  perhaps  real  enough  to  some  long-dead 
great-grandmother  of  ours  in  the  years  when  our 
ancestors  lived  and  visited  amid  furniture  and 
rooms  not  unlike  these. 

Marblehead  has  no  such  beautiful  churches  as 
the  Unitarian  in  Newburyport  or  the  Universal- 
ist  in  Gloucester,  but  it  has  one  that  is  very  inter- 
esting, St.  Michael's,  the  second  oldest  church  in 
the  country. 

This  church  was  made  in  England,  from  its 
framework  to  its  pews  and  reredos,  and  set  up  in 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

1714  on  the  place  where  it  stands  to-day.  So,  if 
Marblehead  was  somewhat  dark  and  sinful  in  its 
early  days,  it  at  least  had  a  church  that  has  en- 
dured longer  than  those  built  by  most  of  its  good 
little  sisters. 

The  building  is  very  plain  with  a  little  box  of 
a  tower,  and  stands  somewhat  high-shoulderedly 
Jin  a  small  graveyard  with  some  ancient  stones 
marking  the  spot  where  its  ministers  and  some  of 
its  parishioners  are  buried.  Under  the  church 
there  is  a  sepulchre,  a  rare  thing  in  these  Colonial 
buildings. 

The  little  place  is  in  perfect  preservation,  and 
contains  some  fine  relics,  such  as  the  organ  that 
played  the  wedding  march  for  Washington  and 
Mary  Custis,  which  was  brought  here  from  Phila- 
delphia. There  is  also  a  brass  chandelier  pre- 
sented by  the  collector  of  the  port  of  Bristol,  Eng- 
land, in  1732,  and  a  lovely  silver  cross  made  from 
the  ancient  plate  of  a  Marblehead  family,  and 
probably  given  in  thanks  for  some  safe-returned 
ship. 

Another  interesting  church  is  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic, high  on  its  hill,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
from  sea.  It  is  known  as  the  Star  of  the  Sea,  and 
many  a  mariner  is  said  to  have  steered  a  safe  course 
by  it. 

Naturally  every  one  who  has  heard  of  Marble- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

head  has  heard  of  Flood  Ireson.  But  when  you 
get  to  Marblehead  you  find  that  all  you've  heard  is 
quite  wrong.  The  Skipper  whose  cowardice  most 
of  us  have  declaimed  at  school  in  the  best  poem 
Whittier  wrote,  was  entirely  wronged,  and  with 
the  older  natives  of  the  town  wrath  still  runs  warm 
on  the  subject  of  the  injustice. 

"  The  Skipper  had  been  on  the  bridge  for  thirty- 
six  hours  without  a  rest,"  said  our  informant,  as 
we  sat  in  those  two  Colonial  chairs.  "  He  was 
just  worn  out,  and  as  the  weather  took  a  turn  for 
the  better  he  left  the  ship  to  the  mate  and  turned 
in  for  some  rest."  The  distress  signal  from  "  a 
sinking  wreck,  with  his  own  townspeople  on  her 
deck,"  had  been  reported,  and  "  Skipper,  he  gave 
orders  to  rescue  the  crew.  But  once  he  was  below 
why  the  men  swore  they  wouldn't  stop,  with  their 
wives  waiting  for  them  after  their  months  at  sea, 
and  they  just  took  their  vessel  in.  Then,  knowing 
there'd  be  trouble  if  anything  ever  come  out  about 
it,  they  reported  straight  away,  before  ever  Skip- 
per Ireson  knew  what  was  doing,  saying  that  he'd 
made  them  abandon  the  ship  and  come  right  into 
port." 

It  was  a  bad  business  for  the  Skipper,  for  no 

one,  in  the  wild  indignation  raised  by  the  sailors' 

tale,  would  so  much  as  listen  to  the  story  he  might 

have  to  tell.    It  wasn't  the  women,  but  the  men, 

-*-  176  -*-: 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

who  "  Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  corrt,  Old 
Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt,"  taking  him  as 
far  as  the  Salem  boundary  line,  where  they  were 
forbidden  to  go  farther,  and  so  carted  him  back. 
He  was  silent  after  his  first  attempts  to  explain, 
simply  remarking  when  he  was  finally  turned 
free :  "  I  thank  you,  gentlemen,  for  my  ride ;  but 
you  will  live  to  regret  it." 

The  ship  they  left  to  sink  was  the  schooner  "  Ac- 
tive "  of  Portland,  and  there  were  no  Marblehead 
folk  aboard  her,  but  the  desertion  of  her  was  none 
the  less  serious  in  Marblehead  eyes.  Only,  in  lis- 
tening to  what  is  probably  the  true  version  of  the 
tragedy  one  wonders  why  Marblehead  is  so  will- 
ing to  prove  her  whole  crew  a  set  of  cowards, 
rather  than  letting  old  Ireson  bear  the  brunt  of  it, 
as  he  has  had  to  for  so  long.  It  makes  it  rather 
darker  for  the  town.  But  the  skipper's  words  have 
come  true,  even  though  he  never  lived  to  know  it. 

The  house  is  there  to-day,  rather  shabby  and 
forlorn,  no  ornament  to  the  town  it  has  little  cause 
to  love. 

There  is  another  legend  belonging  to  Marble- 
head  that  will  be  told  you  in  the  old  room.  It  is 
the  sad  story  of  the  Shrieking  Woman,  who  is  said 
still  to  shriek  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  when 
she  was  barbarously  murdered  by  a  pirate  crew  in 
Oakum  harbour,  or  rather  on  the  shore  of  that 
-+-I77-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

little  cove.  It  was  at  a  time  when  the  men  of  the 
place  were  away  fishing,  and  the  few  frightened 
women  and  children  dared  make  no  attempt  to 
save  the  unfortunate  lady,  whose  dreadful  screams 
pierced  the  night.  Distinctly  she  was  heard  to  cry 
out,  "  Lord  save  me!  Mercy!  O,  Lord  Jesus,  save 
me!  "  Finally  silence  came,  and  in  the  morning  a 
new  grave  covered  this  poor  soul  from  the  eyes  of 
the  timid  persons  who  ventured  out  to  see  what 
was  to  be  seen.  But  it  could  not  hold  her,  as  many 
a  Marblehead  resident  will  tell  you  who  has  him- 
self or  herself  heard  the  fearful  shrieks  echoing 
in  a  voice  as  unearthly  as  that  of  the  banshee. 

The  ugly  old  Town  House  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  small  market  square,  still  the  shop-section 
of  Marblehead.  Here  the  famous  Marblehead 
Regiment  was  recruited  in  1776.  The  town  was 
not  of  the  type  to  hold  back  where  there  was  fight- 
ing to  be  done,  and  the  first  privateer  of  the  war 
was  fitted  out  in  Marblehead.  The  G.  A.  R.  has 
its  headquarters  here  now,  and  other  town  inter- 
ests meet  in  the  old  rooms. 

The  morning  was  fresh  and  the  sun  shone  bright, 
and  I  proposed  that  we  walk  over  to  the  Neck 
by  the  breakwater,  make  its  circuit,  and  come  back 
on  the  ferry.  Over  the  rocky  fields  we  went,  where 
hawthorn  bloomed  and  blueberries  were  in 
flower,  and  many  birds  flitted.  Behind  us  the  pic- 
"-*- 178  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

turesque  town  pursued  its  business,  which  is  said 
to  be  the  making  of  shoes,  but  which  looked  like 
hauling  over  boats,  painting  a  dory  here,  scraping 
a  hull  there,  adjusting  a  sail,  rushing  back  and 
forth  in  astonishingly  fast  motor  boats,  and  gen- 
erally dabbling  in  the  water. 

Along  the  narrow  strip  of  stone  and  sand  that 
joins  the  Neck  and  Marblehead  proper  the  surf 
breaks  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  the  blue 
harbour  spreads  away  as  flat,  at  least  that  morn- 
ing, as  milk  in  saucer.  Sender  boats,  sloops,  cut- 
ters, yawls,  and  cats  moved  back  and  forth,  car- 
ried by  the  wind  that  was  too  light  to  ruffle  the 
water.  It  was  like  magic  or  a  moving  picture. 

A  stream  of  automobiles  rushed  back  and  forth 
beside  us  as  we  sauntered  on,  each  seeming  in  a 
prodigious  hurry  to  get  to  or  to  get  away  from 
the  summer  splendour  at  the  Neck.  This  was 
just  getting  fairly  started,  most  of  the  cottages 
open,  the  hotels  shaking  off  their  winter  sleep,  all 
very  gay  and  jolly.  There  are  plenty  of  beautiful 
trees  out  here,  bordering  the  fine  road  that  swings 
completely  round  the  Neck.  The  interior  is  prac- 
tically untouched,  though  in  one  place  it  is  divided 
by  another  white  road,  and  cottages  are  beginning 
to  appear  there  too. 

When  we  got  to  the  farther  end  we  scrambled 
out  on  the  rocks  to  see  the  harbour  mouth,  and 
-M79+- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Halfway  Rock,  some  three  miles  out  to  sea.  This 
rock  lies  halfway  between  Boston  Light  and  Cape 
Ann,  a  low  and  wicked  monster  full  of  the  power 
for  evil.  To  propitiate  fortune  it  has  long  been 
the  custom  for  the  sailor  people  of  Marblehead 
to  toss  it  a  copper  or  silver  coin  as  they  passed  it 
on  the  way  out  to  the  fishing  grounds  or  to  longer 
voyages.  It  was  an  odd  superstition,  but  there  are 
others  like  it,  and  they  seem  to  come  from  the  In- 
dians, who  often  have  such  propitiatory  spots, 
where  they  make  offerings  to  some  power  whose 
intentions  they  fear. 

A  white  and  shining  yacht  was  sailing  out  past 
the  rock  as  we  sat  and  watched,  but  it  did  not 
go  very  close,  and  we  could  not  perceive  any 
activity  on  board  that  would  lead  us  to  think  the 
men  on  it  were  tossing  away  their  small  change. 

"  Even  the  sea  people  are  losing  their  super- 
stitions," I  complained.  "  Think  of  all  the  par- 
sons nowadays  who  cross  the  high  seas  with  never 
a  protest  from  the  men  before  or  behind  the  mast. 
Who  cares  whether  the  rats  leave  a  ship  now? 
They  are  kept  out  of  them,  in  fact.  Wireless  takes 
the  place  of  signs  and  omens,  just  as  gasoline  de- 
fies the  wind.  Look  at  that  schooner  coming  in 
this  minute.  She  is  going  under  her  own  power, 
not  the  wind's.  That  one  sail  she  has  hoisted  is 
simply  to  steady  her." 

-»- 180-*- 


;•:,[  yjwyuv>i-       fsBaSS1*  5*5  •  t   ,"-;:'    ^  ' 


V? 


^  «••>  f-'-saaft-rt^KSTW 
rip^mngjAJr 

Mfijp^ 

^-j^B^:Wt--^^: 

^^B^pl&rs^^Mlf 

^afc-vv'JIfe^KE? 

^\S 

^Wfej» 

':•&" 
^^; 


-.-/ 

5 

T"" 


^j 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  On  the  other  hand,  we  don't  have  to  fear  be- 
coming a  Shrieking  Woman  because  pirates  have 
held  up  a  liner,"  comforted  Sister.  "  And  look  at 
that  steam  yacht,  manoeuvring  to  get  into  position 
between  all  those  floating  boats.  Isn't  it  as  fine  a 
sight  as  a  galleon  under  full  sail  could  ever  have 
been?" 

It  was  a  lovely  sight.  The  yacht  so  trig  and 
slender,  her  black  hull,  her  white  decks,  the  glitter 
of  her  brass,  moving  so  surely  and  steadily,  like  a 
creature  with  life  of  its  own. 

"  You  can't  beat  the  water,"  I  agreed,  happily. 
"  It  keeps  its  beauty,  and  it  changes  into  beauty, 
sooner  or  later,  everything  with  which  it  comes 
into  contact.  Brig  or  steamer,  bridge  or  wharf, 
clam  shack  or  lighthouse,  dory  or  gasoline  launch, 
I  want  to  see  them  all  the  time." 

And  then  we  went  into  the  Nanepashemet  Hotel 
for  luncheon,  because  of  its  gorgeous  name  and 
view.  Not  but  what  you  would  find  it  a  difficult 
matter  to  get  anywhere  on  the  Neck  where  there 
wasn't  a  gorgeous  view. 

If  you  have  gone  tramping  and  found  yourself 
a  trifle  reluctant  to  return  toward  the  end  over  the 
same  course  you  trod  so  eagerly  and  stoutly  at  the 
beginning  of  the  day,  think  how  pleasant  it  was 
to  find  that  the  ferry  left  at  just  the  identical  spot 
where  we  began  to  feel  the  same  way. 
-1-181-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

A  sweet  little  lane  as  green  as  spring  led  between 
delicious  gardens  to  the  small  dock  where  the 
boat  waited.  At  least,  that's  what  we  thought 
it  was  doing,  but  it  wasn't — it  was  leaving, 
and  it  left,  just  as  we  made  the  head  of  the 
steps. 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Sister.  "  Let  us  sit  here  and 
stare  at  the  beautiful  old  town  of  Marblehead. 
Looking  at  something  you  like  is  one  of  the  most 
sensible  things  any  one  can  do,  and  I  like  Marble- 
head." 

In  fact,  those  who  live  on  the  Neck  have  per- 
haps an  even  better  thing  of  it  than  those  who  live 
in  the  town  itself,  for  the  view  of  it  in  its  entirety 
as  you  see  it  from  the  harbour  side  is  like  an  en- 
chantment. The  harbour  was  so  calm  that  shim- 
mering reflections,  broken  by  passing  boats, 
doubled  the  quaint  place  in  the  water  to  which  it 
so  intimately  belongs.  We  were  sorry  when  the 
little  ferry  came  to  take  us  away. 

There  is  a  monument  standing  in  the  old  Burial 
Hill  that  is  but  one  more  witness  to  the  perilous 
life  led  by  the  men  of  these  seaport  towns  a  genera- 
tion or  so  ago  and  on  back  to  the  beginning.  Now 
the  sea  is  not  so  dangerous,  though  it  still  kills 
often  enough  to  keep  the  women  staring  across 
its  wild  levels  when  their  men  are  out  on  it,  with 
hearts  that  are  troubled  enough'. 
-+•  182  •*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

On  this  monument  we  read  the  following  in- 
scription: 

LOST 

On  the  Grand  Banks  of  Newfoundland 
In  the  Memorable  Gale  of  September  1846 

65  Men  and  Boys 

43  Heads  of  Families 

155  Fatherless  Children 
"The  Sea  Shall  Give  Up  the  Dead  That 
Were  In  It." 

A  stricken  town  it  was  that  day!  Looking  at 
it  now,  a  place  of  summer  play,  its  fishing  days 
are  as  far  away  .from  it  as  those  when  the  pirates 
— "  free  spenders  they  were  too,"  as  the  old  chron- 
icler tells,  an  item  that  must  have  struck  any  New 
Englander  forcibly — revelled  in  its  streets. 
1  Marblehead  used  to  have  the  flakes  that  Glouces- 
ter has  now,  and  dried  her  thousands  of  pounds 
of  fish.  But  she  yielded  her  predominance  there 
when  most  of  her  fleet  was  lost  at  sea,  and  later 
took  to  making  rope.  The  long  ropewalks,  down 
which  the  makers  walked  backward,  twisting  the 
hemp,  were  burned  in  the  fire  that  swept  the  town 
in  1866.  It  was  a  blow  that  left  the  little  village 
crushed  for  years.  Many  an  old  house  went  in  that 
fire,  the  wonder  being  that  so  much  of  the  town 
was  preserved. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

The  spirit  of  the  Marblehead  native  has  not  lost 
its  character.  He  does  things  his  own  way,  and 
in  his  own  good  time.  Many  a  story  is  told  by  the 
summer  visitor  to  prove  the  difference  in  the  point 
of  view  of  Marbleheaders  from  ordinary  folk. 

"  I  wanted  to  get  a  lawn  mower  to  cut  the  grass 
on  the  lawn  of  my  old  place,  which  had  been 
pretty  badly  neglected,  the  first  year  I  was  here," 
said  one  of  these  "  foreigners  "  to  us.  "  It  was 
during  the  last  week  of  April,  but  the  season  was 
forward  and  the  grass  had  responded. 

"  So  I  went  to  the  store  where  we  got  about 
everything  we  wanted,  and  asked  the  proprietor 
whether  he  kept  lawn  mowers. 

"  '  Ye'm,  we  keep  them.' 

"  I  asked  to  have  one  sent  up,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

" '  We  don't  sell  any  lawn  mowers  before  May 
first,'  he  said  firmly. 

"  It  made  no  difference  when  I  explained  that  I 
needed  it  at  once.  He  admitted  he  had  them  in 
stock,  c  but  they're  clear  up  in  the  garret,'  he  told 
me,  and  there  he  intended  they  should  remain 
until  May  first.  So  I  had  to  send  to  Boston  for 
my  lawn  mower." 

"  It's  no  use  coming  to  Marblehead,  expecting 
to  be  a  Marbleheader,"  another  told  us.  "  I've 
been  doing  that  for  fifteen  years,  and  I'm  only 
-*- 184-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

beginning  to  see  now  how  little  I  understand  the 
place  and  its  people.  It's  the  queerest  but  most 
adorable  old  town  in  the  United  States." 

Which  strikes  me  as  an  eminently  just  estimate 
of  the  place.  Sister  said  she  wanted  to  make  it 
stronger,  but  we  couldn't  think  how.  And  when 
the  day  came  for  our  friends  to  motor  us  to  Salem, 
to  take  the  train  for  Plymouth  and  New  Bedford, 
our  hearts  were  sad  at  the  parting. 


Plymouth  and  New  Bedford 


CHAPTER  VIII 


E  felt  it  to  be  a  matter  of  honour  to  go 
and  gaze  upon  the  famous  rock  with 
which  our  history  as  a  nation  begins. 

"  You,  with  your  passion  for  rocks, 
could  hardly  let  Plymouth  Rock  pass  without 
homage,"  Sister  stated.  But  I  knew  that  she  was 
quite  as  eager  as  I  to  stand  on  that  small  spot  of 
ground  where  first  the  Pilgrims  settled.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  in  all  of  us  there  lives  a  feeling  that 
we  are  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  and  that  our  true  busi- 
ness has  far  more  to  do  with  eternity  than  with 
time,  that  we  derive  a  pleasure  in  linking  up  our 
own  minute  of  worldly  existence  with  those  of  our 
forerunners.  To  stand  and  say  "  Here  stood  the 
beginning  of  what  is  now  "  brings  the  past  very 
close  to  the  present,  and  so  the  future  too.  We 
are  a  portion  of  all  three,  and  such  bits  of  proof 
are  welcome. 

So,  leaving  our  baggage  to  proceed  on  to  New 
Bedford,  where  we  were  to  spend  the  night,  we 
reached  Plymouth  early  of  a  lovely  summer  day, 
and  proceeded  to  do  our  American  duty. 
-*•  189-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Plymouth  is  old  and  quiet  and  sleepy.  It  lies 
on  a  bay  with  the  same  name,  and  of  the  same 
character.  Green  trees  have  been  growing  in  it 
for  a  great  many  years,  and  old  houses  standing 
calmly  under  them.  Children  play  along  the 
streets  rather  sedately,  it  seemed  to  us. 

"  It  must  be — well,  something  or  other — to  be 
born  in  Plymouth,"  Sister  thought. 

"  Somewhat  the  same  sort  of  thing  as  one 
imagines  to  burn  in  the  breast  of  the  only  heir  to 
some  vast  and  ancient  estate  that  has  come  down 
in  an  unbroken  line  from  the  days  of  William  the 
Conqueror?  " 

"  Yes.    A  kind  of  noblesse  oblige." 

It  was  only  a  turn  or  two  until  we  reached  Pil- 
grim Hall,  a  large  stone  building  which  we  left 
for  later  observation,  our  motto  being  "  On  to  the 
Rock!" 

The  canopy  that  has  been  built  over  the  his- 
toric, cracked  fragment  on  which,  according  to 
one  version,  John  Alden  was  the  first  to  put  foot, 
and  according  to  another,  just  as  reliable,  Mary 
Chilton,  who  became,  later  on,  the  wife  of  John 
Winslow,  is  familiar  to  every  one  who  ever  read 
a  word  about  Plymouth,  for  the  picture  of  the  solid 
and  not  beautiful  structure  has  been  scattered 
broadcast  on  postcards  and  in  school  readers  all 
over  our  land.  In  the  upper  part  of  this  canopy 
t-*-  190-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

is  a  chamber  where  repose  a  number  of  human 
bones  dug  up  on  Cole's  Hill,  which  rises  close 
beside  the  rock.  Here  the  Pilgrims  buried  about 
half  their  number  during  the  bitter  and  terrible 
months  that  followed  their  establishment  on 
American  soil.  And  as  they  buried  them  they 
levelled  the  mounds  and  in  spring  sowed  wheat 
over  the  place  that  the  watchful  Indians  might 
not  know  how  busy  death  had  been. 

The  story  of  the  rock,  like  that  of  the  landing, 
has  two  versions.  The  actual  stepping-out  spot  is 
said,  by  some  earnest  folk,  to  be  now  hidden  under 
the  wharf  that  pushes  out  into  the  quiet  water  in 
front  of  the  canopy.  The  portion  beneath  this 
having  been  broken  off  and  placed  where  it  now 
lies. 

The  other  story  is  to  this  effect. 

In  1774,  when  the  land  was  burning  at  a  white 
heat  with  the  fire  of  patriotism,  an  unknown 
poetic  soul  suggested  that  the  Forefathers'  Rock 
should  be  consecrated  anew,  to  form  a  new  start- 
ing place  for  freedom. 

A  day  for  this  ceremony  being  appointed,  every 
one  who  could  by  any  means  make  his  or  her  way 
to  Plymouth  came  to  the  settlement.  It  was  the 
fifth  of  October,  when  all  the  forests  about  were 
splendid  with  autumn  colour,  when  the  marshes 
were  a  field  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  the  wild  ducks 
.-*-  191  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

gathered  in  the  countless  pools  and  lakes  that  lie 
about  Plymouth,  reflecting  heaven  with  unabating 
constancy  and  making  a  beautiful  land  more  beau- 
tiful by  their  presence. 

Through  this  sunny  splendour  came  the  people, 
each  bearing  his  own  flame  of  dedication  and  of 
enthusiasm.  They  gathered  round  the  rock,  and 
proceeded  to  lift  it  from  its  bed,  that  they  might 
place  it  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green,  as  they 
intended  that  what  it  stood  for  should  stand  in  the 
centre  of  each  heart. 

Suddenly,  as  the  stalwart  crew  struggled  to 
drag  the  huge  stone  from  its  position,  it  burst  in 
two. 

A  thrill  of  terror  ran  through  the  throng.  This 
must  be  some  evil  omen.  Many  were  for  stopping 
the  whole  demonstration,  even  for  seeing  here  a 
sign  that  the  matter  which  had  brought  them  on 
this  errand,  the  revolt  against  oppression  that  had 
urged  them  on,  was  itself  doomed  and  shattered 
before  it  was  well  started. 

But  at  this  instant  some  one,  either  more  quick- 
witted or  of  a  higher  faith  than  his  companions, 
sprang  up  and  declared  that  here  was  a  fortunate 
promise,  a  presage  that  the  Colonies  should  break 
from  the  parent  empire  and  stand  on  their  own 
base.  Shouts  of  joy  greeted  this  bold  declaration, 
the  upper  half  of  the  rock  was  dragged  with  tri- 
-*•  192-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

umphant  pageantry  to  the  spot  that  had  been 
selected,  a  tall  liberty  pole  was  erected  behind  it, 
and  a  flag  on  which  were  the  words  "  Liberty  or 
Death  "  was  run  up  into  the  clear  air. 

And  there  for  many  years  it  rested.  But  in 
1881  it  was  taken  back  and  placed  again  on  the 
portion  that  lay  under  the  canopy.  And  there  it 
now  is. 

Inside  Pilgrim  Hall  we  looked  upon  the  sword 
of  Miles  Standish. 

There  is  a  great  deal  else  to  be  seen  there, 
especially  interesting  being  Eliot's  Indian  Bible. 
But  this  sword,  with  its  power  to  evoke  the 
vision  of  the  stout  soldier  who  carried  it,  and  all 
the  romance  of  the  two  young  people  so  closely 
associated  with  him — that  was  something  to  linger 
over. 

Standish's  house  is  in  Duxbury,  lying  only  a  lit- 
tle way  to  the  north,  where  too  is  Captain's  Hill, 
named  for  the  same  stalwart  gentleman,  and  easy 
to  see  that  clear  day  from  Burial  Hill,  which  we 
climbed,  as  much  for  the  view  as  for  a  look  at  the 
old  stones  dating  back  at  least  as  early  as  1627, 
for  under  that  date  lies  Mr.  Thomas  Clark,  who 
had  reached  the  age  of  98.  A  fine  spirit  the  old 
man  must  have  harboured  that  would  lead  him  to 
take  the  journey  across  the  Atlantic  when  most 
people  of  his  advanced  age  would  have  thought 
+  193-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

that  a  few  steps  to  the  sunny  seat  in  the  park  was 
enough  and  to  spare! 

Governor  Bradford  is  buried  here,  he  who 
wrote  what  people  call  the  Log  of  the  Mayflower, 
but  which  was  really  the  "  History  of  Plimoth 
Plantation,"  writ  in  the  very  hand  of  Bradford 
himself. 

The  long  blue  reaches  of  the  bay,  with  slender 
strips  of  sandy  beach  and  low  green  islands  beau- 
tifully marking  it;  the  dim  outline  of  Cape  Cod 
beyond;  the  charming  town,  which  looks  busy 
enough  from  this  elevation,  and  is  in  truth  a  manu- 
facturing place  of  importance;  the  slender  monu- 
ment to  Standish  at  Duxbury  with  green  country  in 
between  and  miles  of  orchards  and  fields  and  for- 
est land,  with  ponds  agleam  and  a  river  glancing 
here  and  there  among  the  sheltering  trees;  close 
by  the  National  Monument  to  the  Pilgrims,  with 
its  figure  of  Faith  on  top  and  four  other  figures 
seated  about  her,  representing  various  virtues;  of 
course  there  is  a  lighthouse,  the  Gurnet  light, 
marking  the  safe  entrance  to  the  harbour,  and 
equally  of  course  a  fragrant  growth  of  lilacs  in  the 
old  gardens  around  the  old  houses. 

"What  was  the  reason  that  the  Pilgrims  and 
the  Puritans  chose  the  dead  of  winter  to  come 
here?  "  Sister  wanted  to  know,  as  we  lay  on  our 
backs  in  the  green  soft  grass  and  looked  at  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

master  commingling  of  green  and  blue  in  the  view. 
"  If  they  had  come  at  this  time  of  the  year  things 
would  have  been  far  more  pleasant." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  they  thought 
the  hostile  Indians  would  be  too  frozen  to  trouble 
them  while  they  were  getting  settled  and  build- 
ing that  stout  fort  which  stood  on  this  very  hill. 
What  a  splendid  set  they  were ;  and  here  they  lie, 
long  since  mingled  with  this  soil  under  us,  real 
pioneers,  not  one  of  them  going  back  when  they 
had  the  chance  on  the  Mayflower,  though  only 
half  that  came  on  her  were  left  alive." 

Yet,  though  we  knew  of  their  hardships,  it  was 
difficult  to  believe,  as  we  looked  out  on  that  serene 
landscape,  that  sleeping  bay,  that  any  mortal  could 
have  suffered  privation  in  such  a  spot. 

We  began  to  move  among  the  graves,  step- 
ping carefully.  Dandelions  rioted,  and  pale  star 
flowers  lifted  their  green  and  white  faces  in  clus- 
ters. We  found  one  stone  consecrated  to  the 
memory  of  a  preacher,  the  Rev'd  Chandler  Rob- 
bins.  He  it  was  who  once  was  requested  by  the 
town  selectmen  not  to  have  more  horses  grazing 
on  Burial  Hill  than  should  be  really  necessary. 

How  many  horses  are  necessary  in  such  a  place? 

Emerson  was  married  in  one  of  the  old  houses 
here  in  Plymouth,  known  as  the  Winslow  House, 
built  1754,  whose  stout  frame  was  made  in  Eng- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

land.  And  the  gambrel-roofed  house  on  Maine 
Street  saw  the  birth  of  Warren,  President  of  the 
Provincial  Congress. 

"  You  ought  to  go  to  Morton's  Park,"  we  were 
told  by  an  interested  waiter  at  the  little  place 
where  we  stopped  for  lunch.  "  It's  fine  out  there, 
right  along  the  shore  of  Billington's  Sea,  and  the 
place  is  full  of  flowers." 

It  sounded  good  to  us,  but  Plymouth  had  been 
a  sudden  inspiration,  not  part  of  our  plan,  and 
we  must  follow  out  suitcases  to  New  Bedford,  for, 
fool  ourselves  as  we  might,  we  were  after  all  but 
the  slaves  of  time,  and  not  much  of  our  vacation 
was  left  us.  The  train  had  to  be  taken. 

We  said  so.  But  Sister,  ever  on  the  search  for 
information,  wanted  to  know  why  the  name  was 
Billington,  and  why  sea. 

They  know  their  history  in  Plymouth,  scorning 
such  ignorance  as  we  ran  up  against  in  New- 
buryport. 

"  They  say  that  it  was  a  man  called  Billington 
who  climbed  a  big  tree  when  the  Mayflower  party 
was  exploring  round  about  here,"  said  our  dis- 
tinguished waiter.  "  He  saw  that  big  lake  and 
thought  it  was  the  sea,  and  so  that's  what  they've 
called  it  to  this  day." 

Sometimes  it  is  as  immortalizing  to  make  a  mis- 
take as  to  be  right.  Here  shines  Billington  from 
•-»•  196-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

generation  to  generation,  because  of  his  skill  in 
climbing,  and  his  confusion  as  to  the  points  of  the 
compass. 

"  Of  course  it's  interesting  to  see  the  Rock  and 
the  points  generally  round  the  town,"  concluded 
the  waiter,  as  we  prepared  to  depart,  "  but  it's 
the  country  round  Plymouth  that  makes  it  worth 
staying  here.  If  you  ask  me,  there  isn't  any 
prettier  country  in  the  state." 

"  We'll  come  back  another  season  and  see  it," 
said  Sister,  firmly.  "  Do  you  know  Massachu- 
setts well?" 

He  refused  to  commit  himself.  "  I've  come 
from  Boston,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

The  train  we  took  was  almost  empty,  and  we 
were  able  to  look  out  at  both  sides  and  to  keep  the 
windows  open.  And  as  we  looked  we  agreed  with 
the  waiter  that  there  was  no  lovelier  country,  either 
in  that  state  or  any  other. 

"  Things  can  be  as  charming,  but  they  can't 
be  more  charming  than  perfection,"  we  decided. 
The  bold  and  grim  glory  further  north  was  not 
here,  but  there  was  another  glory,  tender,  dream- 
ing, full  of  soft  contours  and  mingling  colour.  It 
was  a  gracious  land,  this  old  home  of  the 
Pilgrims. 

There  was  one  lone  carriage  at  the  station  in 
New  Bedford,  one  of  those  dark  and  shut-in  af- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

fairs  that  are  reserved  for  funerals  and  these 
briefer  transits  from  railroad  to  hotel.  We  asked 
the  driver  what  was  the  best  hotel. 

He  appeared  to  ponder  awhile. 

"  The  best  hotel  ain't  finished  yet,"  he  said, 
finally.  "They're  buildin'  it,  and  it's  to  be  real 
up-to-date,  but  it  ain't  anywhere  near  done  yet." 

"  How  about  the  second  best  hotel?  " 

"  I  guess  it's  the  Parker  House,"  he  ventured. 

The  Parker  House  became  our  haven.  There 
is  certainly  nothing  up-to-date  about  it,  but  it 
had  an  old  and  musty  quality  that  is  not  disagree- 
able. It  seems  to  belong  with  the  old  days  of  New 
Bedford's  past,  forever  gone.  It  too,  we  felt  will 
soon  go.  The  new  hotel  will  surely  empty  its 
antique  halls  and  chambers,  its  vasty  dining  halls 
where  a  frantic  group  of  coloured  musicians  en- 
deavour to  make  you  believe  you  are  in  the  whirl 
of  modern  existence  by  banging  away  at  ragtime 
melodies  or  just  ragtime  without  the  melody.  It 
is  a  doomed  place,  and  therefore  it  has  its  sad  at- 
traction. 

"  We  aren't  much  in  the  hotel  line  now,"  said  a 
young  lady  whom  we  met  later,  "  but  when  we 
get  the  new  place  that's  being  built,  New  Bed- 
ford won't  need  to  be  ashamed  of  its  accommoda- 
tions any  longer." 

New  Bedford  is  getting  to  be  so  very  modern 
-»- 198-*- 


and  efficient,  and  is  building  so  many  new  struc- 
tures of  stone  and  brick,  that  this  hotel  question  is 
evidently  a  sore  one.  It  will  give  a  self-satisfied 
"  thank  goodness  "  when  it  is  properly  answered 
by  the  new  hotel,  which  will  doubtless  be  of  the 
latest  and  best  pattern. 

As  we  walked  up  to  register  we  passed  a  small 
room  on  one  side  of  the  lobby  in  which,  upon  a 
large  sofa,  was  seated  the  largest  and  stoutest  man 
I  ever  looked  upon. 

A  great  head  was  supported  upon  a  neck  that 
swept  outward  to  tremendous  shoulders,  and  be- 
neath these  the  whole  body  broadened  out 
on  a  superb  scale.  A  benign  expression  on  his 
face,  the  air  that  hung  about  him  of  something 
regal  and  unanswerable,  a  huge  fact  not  to  be  gain- 
said, all  produced  the  impression  that  must  have 
been  given  by  Doctor  Johnson  in  his  prime.  Col- 
lected about  this  magnificent  human  creature, 
solid  as  a  mountain  and  as  awe-inspiring,  was  a 
circle  of  lesser  men,  who  were  listening  in  various 
attitudes  of  supreme  attention.  His  voice,  deep 
and  sonorous,  boomed  out  as  he  conversed,  mak- 
ing slight  but  telling  gestures  with  one  hand.  We 
could  not  hear  of  what  he  spoke,  but  to  see  was 
enough.  Profoundly  convinced,  we  moved  slowly 
on,  to  put  our  names  into  the  book  and  have  our 
rooms  assigned  us. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

"  That  man  will  never  move  to  the  new  hotel," 
I  declared,  as  we  followed  a  bellboy  to  the  rooms, 
facing  on  the  main  business  street  of  the  town. 
There  was  no  bath,  only  a  strange  contraption 
with  a  tin  container  on  top  from  which  water,  of 
a  slightly  dingy  aspect,  dripped,  when  you  re- 
leased a  spigot,  into  a  small  handbasin  below. 
The  hotel  was  certainly  ancient. 

"  The  King  of  the  Coffee  House,"  murmured 
Sister.  "  Did  you  notice  the  huge  chair  standing 
out  on  the  street,  against  the  wall,  as  we  came  in? 
I  wondered  what  it  was  for.  From  it,  I  suppose, 
he  dispenses  justice  to  the  populace  at  large." 

And  we  were  glad  that  the  new  hotel  was  still 
unfinished.  For  though  there  was  nothing  of  the 
whaler  in  the  appearance  of  our  Doctor  Johnson, 
there  was  much  of  an  age  that  is  gone  and  a  type 
that  is  lost.  He  gave  New  Bedford  a  flavour. 

When  we  went  down  supper  was  in  progress, 
and  a  cafe  beside  the  dining  room  was  crowded 
with  travelling  men.  The  dining  room  itself  was 
entirely  empty,  and  we  were  waved  on  deep  into 
its  mighty  spaciousness  by  an  irreproachable 
major  domo,  who  appeared  to  think  us  more  nu- 
merous than  we  were,  since  we  were  motioned  to  a 
table  long  enough  to  contain  at  least  eight,  past 
modest  little  boards  laid  for  two. 

The  food  was  abundant  but  characterless,  and 
'-*-  200  -*-' 


/sJte^ 

W^^}\ 

&•        *s          y£V«r>        -       «Vj   -^^V    - 


f\i*.     ^***^.\&'*a'1*  ,•  ---'    _Ji-r'^ 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

we  ate  the  clammy  banana  fritter  that  appeared 
in  the  middle,  the  flavourless  soup  at  one  end,  and 
the  oversweet  dessert  at  the  other  with  that  resig- 
nation with  which  all  Americans  eat  a  poor  meal 
in  flamboyant  surroundings,  especially  when 
under  the  menace  of  a  noisy  and  energetic  orches- 
tra. Then  we  wandered  out  to  take  a  look  at  the 
whaling  town  by  night. 

Nothing  lovelier  than  New  Bedford's  situation 
on  the  Acushnet  River  could  be  imagined.  Our 
first  walk  took  us  straight  to  the  fine  bridge  that 
crosses  over  to  Fairhaven,  from  which  you  get  a 
view  of  the  wharves,  of  the  lighthouses  and  isl- 
ands, the  curve  of  the  river  mouth,  the  green 
banks  and  picturesque  old  water-front  buildings. 
There  was  plenty  of  shipping  to  be  seen,  and  we 
were  told  that  even  to-day  whalers  still  put  out 
from  the  city,  and  that  whalebone  is  one  of  its 
products.  Cotton  is  an  import,  and  the  great 
white  fluffy  bales  were  heaped  high  on  many  a 
dock,  so  that  you  get  quite  a  southern  effect,  and 
are  somewhat  surprised  not  to  see  a  hurrying  row 
of  negroes  trotting  back  and  forth  with  burdens 
on  their  heads,  loading  and  unloading  the 
lighters. 

New  Bedford  still  keeps  in  touch  with  far  and 
foreign  places  by  way  of  the  sea,  for  there  is,  de- 
lightful fact,  a  sailing  packet  service  to  the  Cape 

-*-2OI  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Verde  Islands,  and  passenger  and  freight  steamers 
to  Lisbon  and  the  Azores. 

It  was  Joseph  Rotch,  back  in  1765,  who  started 
the  whaling  business  for  New  Bedford.  He 
bought  a  tract  of  land  along  the  river  where  the 
city  now  stands,  built  some  docks,  and  began  to 
send  out  ships.  Before  the  industry  ceased,  or 
practically  ceased,  New  Bedford  led  the  world 
at  whaling.  Now  it  pretty  nearly  leads  America 
in  making  cotton  goods  of  the  finer  grade,  with 
quantities  of  other  manufactories,  one  item  being 
blackfish  oil,  of  which  it  makes  about  all  that  is 
used  in  the  world.  This  oil  is  valuable  for  clock 
and  watch  works,  we  were  told  by  a  postcard 
seller  who  had  a  picture  of  a  blackfish  that  was 
impressive,  the  creature  being  as  large  as  a 
dolphin. 

In  spite  of  all  this  traffic  with  the  sea  New 
Bedford  has  less  the  appearance  of  a  seaport  town 
to-day  than  any  other  of  the  towns  we  had  yet 
visited. 

It  looks  perhaps  more  like  a  city  of  the  Middle 
West  than  a  New  England  town.  Most  of  the  fol- 
lowing morning  Sister  and  I  spent  in  walking 
through  its  charming  residence  quarters  and  the 
many  lovely  parks  that  help  to  make  it  a  perfect 
wealth  of  greenery.  All  these  broad  and  quiet 
streets  are  lined  with  magnificent  trees,  while  care- 

-*-  202-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

fully  tended  gardens  sweep  back  from  the  side- 
walk to  houses  set  in  their  midst,  houses  square  and 
comfortable,  with  lots  of  room  in  them.  These 
beautiful  streets  go  on  mile  after  mile  up  and 
down  the  river,  and  there  are  many  cross  streets 
that  are  just  as  attractive.  But  walk  on  one  of 
these  and  very  soon  you  touch  the  country  beyond, 
stretching  out  into  woodlands,  where  already  the 
city  is  laying  out  new  parks.  Wherever  we  went 
in  New  Bedford  we  were  struck  by  the  civic  pride 
and  enterprise  that  are  evidently  its  strongest  char- 
acteristic. It  wants  the  best,  and  it  is  getting 
more  of  it  year  by  year. 

"  Don't  miss  the  drive  along  the  shore  and 
round  by  Clark's  Point,"  our  friends  in  Marble- 
head  had  told  us,  so  we  decided  that  we  were 
about  due  for  an  automobile.  The  chauffeur's 
idea  evidently  was  to  get  the  thing  done  with,  for 
he  began  running  at  a  lively  clip  just  as  we  struck 
the  broad  road  that  swings  out  into  the  open,  with 
a  wonderful  outlook  on  the  bay — Buzzards  Bay 
— and  a  fresh  sea  breeze  that  contended  trium- 
phantly with  hats  and  hair. 

"  Are  we  in  this  machine  for  the  purpose  of 
hanging  on  to  our  head  covering  and  wiping  the 
salt  tear  from  our  eye,  or  to  see  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest drives  in  the  country?  " 

We  put  it  to  him. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

He  gave  a  sort  of  amazed  stare  at  the  water, 
on  which  millions  of  white  caps  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared, keeping  time  to  the  measure  of  the  wind. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  see  the  thought  labouring 
in  his  mind.  What  sort  of  freight  was  he  carry- 
ing? Why  had  we  taken  a  car  when  what  we 
wanted  was  a  Shetland  pony?  He  scorned  us,  but 
he  brought  down  the  pace  to  what  we  wanted. 

There  is  a  stone  fort,  called  Ford  Rodman,  at 
Clark's  Point,  and  here  the  business  of  being  a 
soldier  is  still  carried  on.  This  fort  is  one  of  the 
twenty-six  places  reported  on  in  1909  by  the 
U.  S.  Chief  of  Engineers  as  being  a  "  per- 
manent coast  defence."  Of  course,  the  ideas  of 
the  Chief  may  have  altered  since  the  happenings 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Forts  nowadays 
look  like  curious  survivals  of  faith  rather  than 
real  defences.  But  the  lay  mind  is  incapable  of 
judgment  in  such  matters,  and  a  seacoast  fort  has 
more  than  itself  to  depend  on.  Anyhow,  this  one 
looked  efficient  and  low  and  strong  enough  to  make 
the  biggest  ships  behave. 

We  came  back  through  Brooklawn  and  Button- 
wood  Parks.  In  the  latter  there  is  a  little  Zoo 
very  well  arranged,  also  a  ball  park  where  boys 
were  running  and  shouting,  pouring  their  whole 
soul  into  both  occupations  with  that  entire  aban- 
don demanded  by  the  national  game.  A  fine  statue 
-*-  204-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  this  park  has  been  raised  to  "  The  Whalers  and 
their  Successors,  the  Manufacturers,"  to  both  of 
whom  New  Bedford  owes  its  healthy  prosperity. 
The  work  is  by  Zolnay,  and  the  figures  of  the 
whaler  and  his  wife  at  the  base  and  the  mechanic 
at  the  summit  are  really  superb  pieces  of 
sculpture. 

The  buildings  that  you  are  expected  to  see  in 
this  thriving  city  are  not  the  old  ones  but  the  new 
ones.  There  is,  of  course,  the  old  town  hall,  but 
it  has  been  so  done  over  and  refitted  that  it  looks 
extremely  new.  It  is  now  the  library,  one  of  the 
first  free  libraries  in  the  country.  A  splendid  one 
it  is,  with  an  excellent  collection  relating  to  the 
whaling  industry  and  other  items  of  New  Bed- 
ford's previous  incarnation.  The  rooms  are  large, 
sunny,  airy.  The  halls  wide  and  decorated  with 
some  fine  pictures  and  statues,  each  bearing  on 
the  sea  story  that  made  the  city  known  around 
the  world.  Outside,  near  the  entrance,  is  Belah 
Pratt's  well-known  "  Whaleman."  It  is  finely  con- 
ceived, showing  the  prow  of  a  boat  dashing 
through  waves,  while  a  young  man  stands  poised, 
harpoon  in  hand,  watching  his  chance  to  send  the 
iron  home.  A  quotation  cut  on  the  pedestal  from 
Herman  Melville's  great  whaling  story,  "  Moby 
Dick,"  summarises  the  whaleman's  life:  "A  dead 
whale  or  a  stove  boat." 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Up  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  library  we  found 
a  young  woman  who  was  willing  to  take  any 
amount  of  trouble  in  showing  us  old  prints  and 
books  relating  to  the  history  of  her  city.  Away 
back  it  was  known  as  Dartmouth.  The  Acushnet 
was  an  Indian  name,  of  course,  but  it  used  to  be 
spelled  Acoosnet. 

We  asked  her  what  we  ought  to  see,  and  she  told 
us  that  the  Marine  Historical  Society,  or  the  Dart- 
mouth as  it  is  called,  was  well  worth  a  visit. 

"  But  it  is  in  such  a  bad  part  of  town,"  she  said, 
apprehensively.  "  I  don't  believe  you  had  better 
go  there  unless  you  go  right  away,  while  it  is 
bright  daylight.  And  do  please  not  ask  any  ques- 
tion of  any  one  there,  man  or  woman.  If  you 
want  to  find  out  anything,  wait  till  you  see  a 
policeman,  or  ask  a  car  conductor,  for  you  can 
trust  them.  You  know,  anything  might  happen 
in  one  of  those  streets  down  by  the  water.  Why, 
I've  never  been  to  the  place  alone  in  my  life  and 
I'm  a  native  here." 

She  looked  at  us  with  intense  warning  in  her 
eyes,  and  we  regarded  her  with  a  deep  thanks  in 
ours.  But  we  refrained  from  telling  her  that  only 
the  night  before  we  had  wandered  cheerfully 
along  Water  Street,  and  in  other  spots  very  near 
the  water,  and  that  we  had  seen  men  going  in  and 
out  of  the  saloons  that  are  somewhat  frequent  in 
-*•  206  •*-. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

that  neighbourhood.  After  all,  there  is  a  lot  of 
solid  satisfaction  in  believing  that  the  perils  of  un- 
believable wickedness  lurk  on  the  street  corners 
of  any  but  the  "  best "  parts  of  your  city.  It  pro- 
vides some  of  that  sense  of  adventure,  that  feel- 
ing of  helplessness,  that  necessity  to  turn  to  the 
stronger  sex  for  protection,  which  is  so  inherent 
in  every  woman's  breast.  So  why  should  we  tell 
her  that  we  had  passed  in  security  through  darkest 
New  Bedford,  and  that  we  had  even  been  courte- 
ously directed  by  one  of  its  inhabitants? 

Among  other  things  in  the  Dartmouth  building 
we  discovered  that  New  Bedford  got  its  name 
from  one  Joseph  Russell,  who  came  from  the  fam- 
ily of  the  Dukes  of  Bedford.  The  city  is  not  one 
of  the  earliest,  for  it  was  not  till  1760  that  there 
was  anything  that  could  be  called  even  a  village  on 
its  site.  It  reached  its  top  mark  as  a  whaling  cen- 
tre in  1857,  when  its  ships  were  engaged  in  the 
Arctic  seas  as  well  as  in  more  southern  waters.  The 
Civil  War  spent  a  good  deal  of  energy  in  smash- 
ing up  the  great  adventure  of  this  tremendous 
hunting,  many  of  New  Bedford's  ships  being  sunk 
or  captured  by  the  Confederates,  and  most  of  the 
rest  being  taken  by  the  Federal  Government, 
loaded  with  rock,  and  sunk  off  southern  harbours 
to  prevent  blockade  running.  Later  there  were 
terrible  losses  in  the  Arctic  seas,  scores  of  vessels 

H-  207  -*-. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

and  hundreds  of  men  going  down.  Certainly  the 
whales  have  had  their  revenge  on  New  Bedford! 

A  touching  thing  in  regard  to  these  losses  is 
what  is  called  the  Sailors'  Bethel,  which  was  built 
in  1831,  and  is  full  of  memorial  stones  to  men  lost 
at  sea.  New  Bedford  may  not  be  so  picturesque 
now  that  she  makes  cotton  goods  instead  of  har- 
pooning whales,  but  her  children  are  far  less  apt 
to  be  fatherless  and  her  wives  widows  than  in  that 
glorious  era  of  her  existence. 

Quakers  have  always  been  numerous  in  the  city, 
and  they  seem  never  to  have  met  with  any  hard 
feelings  here,  in  which  New  Bedford  is  distin- 
guished from  most  other  New  England  towns. 
There  is  a  beautiful  building,  The  Friends'  Meet- 
ing House,  on  the  corner  of  Seventh  and  Spring 
Streets,  that  we  were  glad  not  to  miss.  It  is  of 
brick,  plain  and  delicate  in  colour,  severe  in  its 
lines,  yet  eminently  noteworthy. 

We  bought  a  copy  of  the  "  Mercury  "  at  a  stand 
close  to  the  office  where  it  is  published  on  Union 
Street.  This  is  the  oldest  continuously  published 
paper  in  the  country,  the  first  copy  having  been 
printed  in  1807.  It  is  a  good  lively  sheet,  well- 
written  and  with  a  local  flavour  that  gives  it 
proper  value.  We  stopped  to  see  if  we  couldn't 
have  a  moment's  chat  with  the  editor,  Mr.  Pease, 
but  he  was  away  at  the  time.  After  all,  no  editor 
-»-  208  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

knows  how  much  he  escapes  in  a  life  he  doubtless 
considers  hard,  the  mere  fact  that  his  paper  is  al- 
most a  decade  over  a  century  old  probably  laying 
Mr.  Pease  open  to  many  such  attacks. 

Every  one  who  goes  to  New  Bedford  also  goes 
to  clean,  bright,  model  Fairhaven  with  its  hand- 
some modern  public  buildings  and  well  laid  out 
park  and  wide  streets  and  general  air  of  neat, 
charming  propriety,  like  a  well  washed  school 
child  in  her  Sunday  clothes.  All  this  or  most  of 
it  is  due  to  H.  H.  Rogers,  who  was  born  in  the 
town,  and  retained  a  filial  interest  in  her  that  ex- 
pressed itself  in  high  schools  and  libraries  and 
town  halls  and  churches  of  the  best  pattern  and 
various  types  of  architecture.  It  is  probably  an 
eminently  satisfactory  place  to  live  in,  though  it 
lacks  interest  to  the  tourist  seeking  character  and 
originality,  that  thing  called  personality  which  be- 
longs to  towns  quite  as  much  as  to  people. 

"  I  suppose  you  can't  do  too  much  for  a  town 
without  the  risk  of  imposing  yourself  on  it,  any 
more  than  you  can  for  a  man  or  a  woman,"  Sis- 
ter put  it,  as  we  walked  idly  through  the  decidedly 
pretty  town.  "  Like  most  good  things,  the  busi- 
ness of  giving  can  be  vastly  overdone.  It's  dan- 
gerous. Let's  walk  back  across  the  bridge  to  New 
Bedford  and  go  to  a  moving  picture." 

But  we  only  got  part  way  across  the  bridge,  be- 
'-*-  209  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

cause  once  again  the  beauty  of  that  harbour  view 
held  us.  Along  the  docks  were  several  square- 
rigged  ships,  and  for  anything  we  knew  to  the 
contrary  they  might  be  whalers  refitting  for  deep- 
sea  hunting.  Such  things  still  are.  The  bark 
"  Canton,"  the  oldest  whaler  in  existence,  still  at- 
tends to  her  business,  we  were  told.  But  of  course 
most  of  the  staunch  old  vessels  have  yielded  to 
time.  A  thrifty  touch  in  this  is  notable  here. 
When  it  came  to  breaking  up  a  whaler  no  longer 
fit  for  the  sea,  one  company  thought  of  packing 
the  timbers  into  barrels,  ready  to  burn  in  open 
fireplaces,  and  created  a  demand  that  was  met  by 
the  shipment  of  hundreds  of  barrels  of  firewood, 
that  burned  with  a  green  and  blue  light  from  long 
contact  with  salt  water.  Sitting  before  such  a  fire 
of  a  wild  autumn  evening  the  fancy  might  be 
bewitched  to  strange  adventures. 

"  The  first  ship  that  ever  flew  the  American  flag 
in  an  English  port  sailed  from  New  Bedford," 
our  friend  in  the  library  had  told  us,  "  and  was 
called  after  the  town,  l  Bedford.'  "  And  the  first 
ship  ever  built  here,  the  "  Dartmouth,"  1767,  was 
one  of  the  famous  Tea  Fleet  in  Boston  harbour. 

It  was  our  last  evening  here,  and  we  wandered 
up  through  Hawthorne  Street  for  the  association 
of  the  name,  and  to  enjoy  the  wonderful  elms  that 
make  a  complete  arch  of  green  overhead  and 

-t-2IO-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

stretch  onward  in  a  fine  vista.  Then  through 
County  Street,  with  its  porticoed  houses,  looking 
like  Southern  Colonial  homes,  and  the  County 
Court  House,  with  its  Greek  pillars  and  pediment. 
City  Hall  Square  is  a  dignified  centre,  every  new 
building  being  planned  to  harmonize  with  what 
has  been  done  before.  The  spirit  of  progress  is 
vitally  alive  in  New  Bedford,  and  whatever  it  is 
doing  in  the  line  of  improvement  seems  to  be  ac- 
complished with  taste  and  discretion.  It  is  a  city 
that  is  evidently  beloved  by  its  citizens,  and  be- 
loved with  intelligence. 

New  Bedford  is  within  easy  reach  of  over  a  hun- 
dred summer  resorts,  all  along  Buzzards  Bay  and 
up  the  charming  Acushnet  River.  The  islands  in 
the  bay  have  their  own  attractions,  and  there  are 
beautiful  beaches  within  a  few  minutes'  reach  of 
the  city.  The  westernmost  of  these  islands,  Cutty- 
hunk,  was  the  place  where  Bartholomew  Gosnold, 
the  discoverer  of  all  this  section,  tried  to  establish 
a  colony  in  1602.  A  monument  erected  by  the 
Dartmouth  Historical  Society  commemorates  this 
effort,  and  stands  on  a  small  island  inside  a  lagoon 
that  runs  up  into  Cuttyhunk. 

Since  we  were  going  up  to  Provincetown  we 
were  to  take  the  ferry  to  Fairhaven  and  connect 
with  the  train  there  early  next  morning. 

The  ferry  is  but  a  few  blocks  from  the  hotel. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

"  Let's  get  a  man  to  carry  our  suitcases  for  us,  and 
walk  down  to  the  boat,"  Sister  proposed,  so  I  left 
directions  for  a  man  to  be  ready  for  us  right  after 
breakfast. 

The  boat  goes  early,  and  we  had  a  nip  and  tuck 
business  of  breakfast,  but  came  out  to  the  desk 
with  time  enough,  if  none  to  spare.  Instead  of  a 
man  a  small  messenger  boy  with  a  bicycle  stood 
at  the  curb.  He  had  spent  some  ingenious  minutes 
in  binding  those  solid  cubes  of  weight  to  his  wheel 
with  leagues  of  twine,  and  started  blithely  off  as 
we  came  out.  Bang  went  the  wheel  and  down 
tumbled  the  suitcases,  dragging  the  twine  after 
them  in  a  tangled  mass.  And  the  moments  that 
were  left  us  were  very  few! 

At  this  instant  two  very  small  and  ragged  boys, 
hauling  a  little  express  cart  of  a  toy  kind  behind 
them,  came  cantering  round  the  corner.  I  hailed 
them  and  they  responded  instantly.  We  cut  loose 
our  baggage  and  piled  it  into  the  new  vehicle, 
while  the  messenger  boy  stood  gaping.  Then  we 
ran,  the  small  boys  ahead  dragging  their  wagon, 
over  the  cobblestones  of  Water  Street,  past  de- 
lighted inhabitants  of  that  wild  and  rough  neigh- 
bourhood, on,  on,  on! 

"  It  ain't  much  farther,  Ma'am,"  gasped  the  gal- 
loping boys,  as  we  turned  corners  and  rushed 
down  hills — fortunately  the  way  to  the  water  is 

-+•  212-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

down  in  this  world.  We  struck  the  pier  at  the 
wrong  side  and  had  to  make  a  mad  detour  to  reach 
the  entrance,  but  we  did  it,  and  the  boat  still 
waited,  with  two  minutes  to  spare.  We  sank  upon 
a  seat,  while  the  two  small  boys  bit  upon  the  coins 
we  had  given  them.  Then,  riding  his  wheel  with 
speed,  the  messenger  boy  charged  down  and 
leaped  toward  us. 

"You  gotter  pay  me,"  he  cried.  "The  Com- 
pany says  so." 

"  Go  back,"  we  told  him,  gently,  "  and  say  any- 
thing you  like  to  the  Company,  and  tell  them  we 
said  it.  But  not  one  cent  for  tribute." 

And  so  we  left  New  Bedford,  wondering 
whether  the  messenger  boy  rifled  the  two  smaller 
boys  of  the  coin  we  had  given  them,  or  whether 
they  had  already  made  good  their  escape. 

"Anyhow,  I  think,  though  they  were  small, 
that  they  looked  like  fighters,"  Sister  remarked 
hopefully.  "  I  don't  believe  it  would  be  possible 
to  take  that  money  from  them  living." 


213 


Provincetown 


CHAPTER  IX 

Provincetown 

HERE  is  nothing  wild  and  dashing  about 
the  train  that  takes  you  to  Provincetown. 
It  stops  at  every  station  and  looks  about, 
while  passengers  get  slowly  on  and  off, 
chat  with  the  brakemen,  and  swap  news  among 
themselves.  Perhaps,  in  the  season,  it  gets  more 
brisk  and  businesslike,  but  in  the  early  days  of 
June  it  makes  you  think  of  the  progress  of  a  rural 
mail  delivery  wagon  up  a  Maine  country  road 
where  the  farms  are  rather  sparse,  and  the  farmers 
apt  to  be  at  the  box  ready  to  get  their  bulletins 
from  the  Agricultural  Department  and  their 
mail-order  goods,  and  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
the  driver. 

After  the  conductor  had  decided  which  car  was 
to  go  to  Provincetown  and  we  had  carted  our  bag- 
gage and  ourselves  into  it,  and  found  separated 
seats,  since  the  place  was  filled  up,  and  cussed  the 
stupidity  of  the  management  as  usual,  we  turned 
to  look  at  the  passing  landscape,  which  is  attrac- 
tive enough  to  make  you  forget  far  bitterer  travel 
woes. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

At  the  broad  base  of  the  Cape  farms  spread  out, 
and  huge  trees  crowd  close  to  white  houses  and 
march  beside  the  winding  roads  in  splendid  pro- 
cessions. Lovely  little  lakes  and  rushing  brooks 
lend  their  variety,  and  where  these  fail  the  blue 
sea  takes  up  the  charming  story. 

Sandwich,  Barnstable,  Yarmouth,  Harwich, 
the  names  of  old  towns  awaken  memories  of  Eng- 
lish trips.  They  are  as  picturesque  and  as  inter- 
esting too,  though  very  different.  These  old 
places  date  back  to  1639  and  keep  all  the  racy 
flavour  of  their  seagoing  past.  Nothing  of  spick 
and  span  modernity  here,  but  ship-folk's  neatness 
and  individuality,  old  houses  sturdily  remaining 
where  the  centuries  have  met  and  passed  them, 
and  old  retired  seamen  crammed  with  marvellous 
stories  dominating  the  village  life. 

On  the  south  side  thunders  the  ocean,  on  the 
north  sleep  the  wide  reaches  of  the  bay.  Sum- 
mer folk  choose  one  side  or  the  other,  and  become 
fanatical  in  upholding  the  rival  claims  of  either. 
The  ocean  side  has  its  wild  splendour  and  more 
rugged  character  to  recommend  it,  and  all  the 
fresh  tang  of  Atlantic  winds.  It  has  also  a  suc- 
cession of  fogs  throughout  the  summer,  and  there 
is  where  the  north  shore  triumphs.  Old  Maus- 
hope,  as  the  Indians  had  it,  smokes  his  pipe  less 
often  on  the  bay  than  facing  the  inrolling  surf. 
-*-2i8-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

As  we  got  on  toward  the  centre  of  the  Cape  the 
landscape  changed.  More  and  more  sand,  and 
great  stretches  of  dwarfed  pine  with  tawny  bark 
and  dark  needles,  and  a  general  appearance  of  be- 
ing the  veterans  of  an  unending  warfare.  The 
little  hills  roll  up  and  down,  and  between  them 
are  wide  cranberry  bogs,  carefully  drained,  with 
narrow  ditches  full  of  water  that  remind  you  of 
irrigating  projects  in  the  West.  Cape  Cod  grows 
most  of  the  cranberries  that  are  marketed,  and  in 
the  picking  season  her  bogs  take  on  a  populous 
look  that  is  like  that  of  the  English  hopfields  at 
harvest.  The  pickers  come  in  hundreds,  some  de- 
pending on  their  hands,  others  using  various  ma- 
chines that  have  been  the  fruit  of  Yankee  inge- 
nuity. Some  of  the  pickers  make  as  much 
as  four  or  five  dollars  a  day  at  the  work, 
though  a  six-quart  measure  only  brings  a  few 
cents. 

As  we  drew  on  to  the  narrower  part  of  the  Cape, 
where  it  makes  the  elbow  bend,  the  sand  grew  in 
power,  the  little  pines  more  desperate  in  their 
struggle  against  it  and  against  the  wind,  that  lifts 
and  tosses  these  sand-hills  almost  at  will.  The  un- 
believably blue  water  came  closer.  Earlier  in  the 
day  we  passed  along  the  edge  of  the  canal  for  a 
few  miles,  and  saw  a  steamer  going  through.  Only 
one  can  go  through  at  a  time,  since  the  passage  is 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

too  narrow  for  ship  to  pass  ship,  and  signals  set 
at  either  end  determine  the  right  of  way. 

There  are  fine  roads  now  on  the  Cape,  roads 
where  motors  fly  easily  along,  but  turn  off  these 
into  the  original  tracks  that  lead  from  farm  to 
farm  or  through  the  scrubby  woods  from  village 
to  village,  and  your  horse  sinks  fetlock  deep  at 
every  step.  Nothing  more  different  than  the  forma- 
tion here  from  that  of  Cape  Ann  could  have  been 
achieved.  Here  the  land  is  in  greater  flux  than 
the  water,  and  at  Truro  the  harbour  has  been  prac- 
tically swallowed  up  by  sand,  in  spite  of  great 
sums  spent  to  keep  it  open. 

'If  twenty  maids  with  twenty  brooms  swept  it 

for  half  a  year, 
Do  you  suppose'  the  Walrus  asked,  '  that  they 

could  sweep  it  clear? ' 
'  I  doubt  it/  said  the  Carpenter,  and  shed  a  bitter 

tear." 

"  A  navy  man  told  me  lately,"  I  informed  Sis- 
ter, as  she  quoted  the  above,  "  that  since  the  canal 
was  built  Provincetown  stands  a  like  danger. 
These  places  will  probably  be  inland  towns  one  of 
these  days,  with  only  vague  memories  of  the  sea 
stirring  feebly  in  the  mind  of  the  Oldest  Inhabi- 
tant." 

"  But  aren't  these  sand-hills  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful?" Sister  demanded. 


^^w^^^^i  y^si^.' 

^  >r3k,  '•^•"  ^ •;i|&£|3t'!a"r'*p'J<^ ^fs-«^sIiS^Si>^:  *-     ,^  ^ 

^^^x?j&tf>tSis&&*~.**~,-  &_    .^~-*    ^^'^^-  VJ.:1 


^    ^»^'^^^i^;':  ^  B-  ff*ff# 

feg^^lg^WHto  K  Ir-xM 

^^tei^'j^J^^f;  -fSs?-^ 


^->i-:^fi-»  '•.••^••^ii  C:^v          v 
^^?:^£^:^«^"^H;     ^ 


(^^^^B 

'W/'tea 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

So  they  are.  Their  colour,  their  long  curves  and 
abrupt  cliffs,  the  vegetation  that  clings  to  them, 
dwarf  pine  and  oak,  slender  birch,  close-growing 
berry  bushes  and  bayberry,  the  coarse  grass  that 
shines  in  the  sun,  each  with  its  own  soft  hue  con- 
trasting with  the  pale  yellow  sand  in  a  thousand 
shades  of  green  and  tawny  and  brown  and  red, 
and  framed  by  blue  sea  and  blue  sky — it  is  a  shout 
of  joy,  and  your  spirits  rise  to  it. 

Back  in  1690  the  fisher  folk  in  these  parts  used 
to  fish  for  whale  from  shore  and  make  their  kill- 
ings too.  They  would  row  out  and  bag  a  whale 
before  breakfast,  and  think  nothing  of  it.  But 
the  whales  were  more  disturbed,  even  to  the  extent 
of  moving  away  from  close  contact  with  Truro  or 
Provincetown  or  Eastham.  Upon  which  the  fish- 
ermen built  boats  and  followed,  passing  the  At- 
lantic and  Pacific  and  going  into  the  Arctic  and 
Antarctic  Seas  after  the  flying  monsters.  The 
country  must  have  its  whales. 

Thoreau  tells  us  that  it  was  decided  to  give  the 
pastors  a  share  of  every  whale  cast  up  by  the  sea, 
and  exercises  his  dry  humour  on  the  picture 
evoked  "  of  the  old  parsons  sitting  on  the  sand- 
hills," watching  for  the  Jonah  fishes  that  were  to 
eke  out  their  scant  salaries. 

And  now  we  pulled  toward  Provincetown,  see- 
ing for  a  good  half  hour  the  long  curve  of  the 

-*-  221  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

point  of  the  Cape  on  which  the  town  lies,  and  the 
dominating  monument  to  the  Pilgrims  that  stands 
on  its  highest  hill,  called  High  Pole  Hill,  from 
which  you  can  not  only  see  the  whole  of  Province- 
town,  but  apparently  most  of  the  world  besides, 
though  it  is  but  seventy  feet  in  altitude. 

At  the  station  stood  a  delightfully  ramshackle 
bus  drawn  by  two  horses,  into  which  we  mounted 
and  were  taken,  in  a  turn  or  two,  to  the  Central 
Hotel,  which,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  buildings 
on  the  sea  side  of  Commercial  Street,  is  built  out 
into  the  water  behind.  Provincetown  has,  properly 
speaking,  only  two  streets,  which  used  to  be  called 
most  appropriately  Front  and  Back.  Now  these 
names  have  been  superseded  by  Commercial  and 
Bradford.  This  is  the  only  mistake  the  adorable 
town  has  committed. 

Early  as  our  start  from  New  Bedford  had  been 
it  was  a  long  way  past  high  noon  before  we  got 
to  the  Central  Hotel,  and  we  wasted  no  time  in 
getting  into  the  dining  room. 

And  oh,  the  delectable  seafood,  chowders,  and 
broiled  fish  and  fish  cooked  every  other  way,  and 
good  roast  meats  and  marvellous  pies  of  that 
room!  Throughout  our  stay,  and  how  we  wished 
that  it  might  have  been  prolonged  for  a  whole 
summer,  we  went  with  joyful  anticipations  to 
those  meals  in  the  dining  room  that  hung  right 

-*-  222-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

over  the  harbour,  and  always  those  anticipations 
were  beaten  by  the  reality. 

A  homey,  unpretentious  place  is  the  Central 
Hotel,  a  place  you  like  from  the  minute  you  enter 
it  and  to  which  your  thoughts  return  with  longing 
after  you  have  left  it. 

Our  room  was  big  and  full  of  sea  wind.  It 
looked  down  into  the  water,  and  beneath  its  win- 
dows old  boats  and  seagulls  lay  rocking  on  the 
wave.  We  were  awakened  next  morning  by  the 
eerie,  sad  callings  of  these  birds,  supported  by  the 
minor  diapason  of  lapping  water.  "  Magic  case- 
ments opening  on  the  foam  "  could  not  have  pro- 
vided a  sweeter  reveille. 

Just  beyond  our  chamber  an  upper  veranda 
with  great  rocking  chairs  and  a  view  that  took  in 
all  the  harbour  tempted  us  to  long,  sweet  hours  of 
doing  nothing.  An  occasional  grunt  of  content- 
ment, a  slight  shifting  of  position — how  simple  a 
thing  is  happiness! 

You  can  see  New  York  or  San  Francisco 
or  Chicago.  It  may  take  some  time,  but  it 
can  be  done.  But  you  can  never  see  Province- 
town. 

Of  course,  you  can  go  all  over  it  in  an  hour. 
Walk  up  and  down  its  two  long  streets  and  weave 
back  and  forth  through  its  fascinating  lanes. 
What  of  that?  Walk  them  again  and  again,  till 

-«-  223  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

every  foot  is  familiar;  go  down  on  every  old 
wharf  head  and  climb  the  changing  sand-hills. 
Keep  it  up  a  lifetime,  and  then,  if  some  one  asked 
you  if  you'd  seen  Provincetown,  you,  being  truth- 
loving,  would  hesitate  to  say  yes.  After  all  there 
was  a  to-morrow,  and  doubtless  Provincetown 
held  something  fresh  for  that  morrow,  as  it  had 
for  all  the  yesterdays. 

We  stepped  out  from  the  hotel  to  be  confronted 
by  a  man  ringing  a  large  bell.  He  wore  a  some- 
what large  and  very  round  hat  and  a  coat  that, 
I  think,  used  once  to  be  called  a  roundabout.  Any- 
way, the  word  describes  it. 

"  It's  the  Town  Crier,"  exclaimed  Sister  with 
delight. 

It  was,  and  when  he  had  finished  ringing  he 
made  an  announcement  that  a  small  power  boat 
belonging  to  a  certain  resident  was  to  be  sold  the 
following  day.  Then  he  moved  farther  on  down 
the  street.  People  stopped  to  listen  for  a  moment 
and  then  went  on  about  their  business.  Town 
criers  were  nothing  more  to  them  than  an  extra 
is  to  New  York. 

The  name  of  this  stout-voiced  gentleman  is  Wal- 
ter L.  Smith,  and  he  earns  a  tidy  little  sum  every 
season  by  his  work.  Probably  in  winter  he  has 
little  to  do,  but  when  there  is  news  of  a  shipwreck, 
a  fire,  or  even  something  from  the  war  front  that 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

seems  particularly  important,  Mr.  Smith  sees  that 
it  is  cried  for  the  benefit  of  the  villagers. 

The  last  time  I  had  heard  a  town  crier  was  the 
year  before  the  war,  in  the  little  French  town  of 
Grez,  close  to  the  line  where  the  German  peril  was 
broken  and  flung  back  along  the  Marne.  He  had 
been  crying  a  lost  cow,  I  remember. 

"  Thank  goodness  the  brutes  didn't  get  there," 
I  exclaimed,  and  Sister  stared  astonished. 

So  I  explained  the  workings  of  my  mind,  and 
we  set  out  to  explore  Provincetown. 

"  Are  we  going  to  be  faithful  to  our  old  loves?  " 
Sister  asked,  as  we  walked  along  the  water  side  of 
Front  Street,  which  is  about  as  straight  as  a  trout 
brook  through  a  rocky  pasture,  following  as  it 
does  the  irregularities  of  the  shore  line.  "  Don't 
forget  how  we  regretted  having  to  leave  Ports- 
mouth, for  example,  or  Gloucester.  And  are  we 
now  to  forget  those  ancient  stone  places  for  this 
village  built  on  the  sands?  " 

"  Maybe,"  I  admitted.  For  already  the  strong 
charm  of  the  little  town  had  gripped  me.  There 
was  something  about  the  way  it  comes  crowding 
down  to  the  water,  sticking  its  feet  right  into  the 
harbour,  pushing  its  houses  right  between  its 
boats,  the  way  it  tucked  itself  close  together,  little 
'house  by  little  house,  as  protection  against  the 
sea  wind,  the  beckoning  charm  of  those  narrow, 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

flower-edged  lanes  that  were  so  short,  and  which 
nevertheless  managed  to  curve  mysteriously,  as  all 
lanes  should,  that  caught  and  held  you  from  the 
very  first  instant. 

A  high  gable  to  the  one  or  one  and  one-half  story 
houses,  sharp  pointed  and  steep,  that  is  the  Prov- 
incetown  pattern.  There  are  little  oblong  houses 
too,  without  a  gable,  and  a  few  that  rise  to  all  the 
dignity  of  three  stories,  but  they  are  not  so  char- 
acteristic. 

A  few  steps  from  our  hotel  is  the  old  Town  Hall 
with  the  bronze  relief  before  it  commemorating 
the  signing  of  the  famous  compact  aboard  the 
Mayflower,  which  remained  in  the  harbour  for 
close  upon  a  month,  while  the  little  shallop  looked 
for  some  place  where  a  home  could  be  established, 
finally  fixing  on  Plymouth.  It  was  a  difficult  month, 
marked  by  Indian  attacks  and  bitter  cold,  death, 
and  illness.  It  was  here  that  little  Peregrine  White 
was  born.  The  landing  was  made  at  the  end  of 
the  harbour  close  to  the  present  mile-long  break- 
water leading  to  the  Woodsend  Light,  and  here  an- 
other tablet  is  set  up.  There  were  many  explora- 
tions of  the  land  inward  from  the  shore,  but  the 
sandy  hills  were  not  likely  to  appeal  to  an  agricul- 
tural group  such  as  arrived  on  the  Mayflower.  A 
few  wanted  to  stay  and  fish  for  cod,  but  they  were 
overruled,  particularly  after  the  Indians  had  let 
'-»•  226  -»- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

fly  some  scores  of  arrows  at  a  party  led  by  Miles 
Standish. 

The  Pilgrims  were  not  the  first  visitors  from 
Europe  to  visit  Provincetown,  but  they  made  more 
of  a  stay.  The  first  authenticated  visitor  appears 
to  have  been  Gosnold,  on  that  voyage  of  his  in 
1602.  He  landed  here  and  declared  himself  "  so 
pestered  with  cod  fish  "  that  he  gave  the  Cape  the 
name  it  has  borne  ever  since. 

A  beautiful  old  church  is  another  charm  of 
Front  Street,  its  spire  making  one  more  of  that 
gracious,  slender  sisterhood  piercing  the  New 
England  skies  from  Maine  to  Connecticut.  Both 
these  old  buildings  face  the  harbour,  and  back  up 
against  the  slope  of  the  hill  behind,  as  though  the 
builders  wished  to  put  them  in  as  safe  a  spot  as 
could  be  found. 

We  walked  round  the  Town  Hall  and  took  the 
path  leading  up  High  Pole  Hill  to  the  Pilgrim 
Monument,  a  lofty  tower  of  granite  that  is  modelled 
upon  the  tower  in  the  Public  Place  of  Siena.  An 
old  sailor  lives  in  a  small,  neat  caretaker's  cottage 
beside  the  shaft  of  stone,  and  sees  that  no  blade  of 
grass  grows  awry  on  the  greensward  surrounding 
the  monument.  He  told  us  that  if  the  day  had  not 
been  a  trifle  hazy  we  could  have  seen  Cape  Ann 
and  much  of  the  shore.  As  it  was  we  overlooked 
a  very  great  deal  of  water  and  land  and  distant 
-*-  227-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

towns  and  white  lighthouses,  while  the  charming 
town  beneath  us  was  visible  to  its  last  Portuguese 
cottage. 

For  in  addition  to  its  other  fascinations  Prov- 
incetown  is  largely  populated  by  these  dark-eyed, 
vivid  children  of  the  sun,  who  run  much  of  its 
business  and  supply  an  element  of  human  colour 
and  beauty  that  is  almost  startling.  You  are 
prepared  to  meet  bearded  captains  with  the  roll 
of  blue  water  in  their  gait,  or  tanned  youths  whose 
shoulders  are  broad  and  strong  from  the  pull  of 
an  oar  and  the  weight  of  a  seine.  You  expect  slim 
maids  with  a  Quaker  demureness,  and  patient  old 
women  who  have  looked  in  vain  for  the  return 
of  their  man  from  his  calling.  But  you  are  not 
prepared  to  catch,  at  some  lilac  shrouded  corner, 
the  low  laughter  and  soft  tongue  of  the  Cape  Verde 
or  Azores  Islands,  to  see  the  silhouette  of  a  keen 
dark  face,  the  glint  of  blue-black  hair  under  a 
brilliant  shawl,  and  a  round  soft  brown  throat  dec- 
orated with  coral  beads.  Yet  here  they  are!  Men 
with  dark,  drooping  mustachios  wearing  loose 
white  shirts  and  trousers  that  were  never  made  for 
the  legs  of  an  American  take  you  out  in  a  motor 
boat  in  the  harbour,  or  run  the  big  motor  buses 
that  dawdle  the  length  of  Front  Street,  stopping 
to  talk  with  any  one  who  has  information  to  give  or 
to  collect,  while  the  passengers  sit  comfortably 
•+228*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

waiting,  watching  the  moving,  changing  life  of  the 
lively  little  street. 

The  shops  that  have  probably  impelled  the  in- 
habitants to  change  the  name  Front  to  Commercial, 
a  change  to  which  both  Sister  and  I  refused  to 
submit,  are  divided  between  those  that  frankly  ap- 
peal to  the  wandering  tourist  and  those  that  sup- 
ply the  needs  of  boat  and  ship  and  fisherman. 
There  are  cold  storage  plants  too,  where  fish  bait 
can  be  procured,  but  we  saw  no  flakes,  and  perhaps 
Provincetown  has  entirely  ceased  to  dry  any  cod 
or  halibut.  It  used  to  be  second  only  to  Gloucester 
in  the  work.  But  there  is  plenty  of  fishing  going 
on,  for  half  the  talk  we  overheard  in  the  street  be- 
tween man  and  man  was  concerned  with  it. 

"  Can  we  get  a  boat  for  a  couple  of  hours?  "  was 
one  of  our  frequent  inquiries. 

"  Well,  now,  let  me  see.  There's  old  Sylva,  he 
might  be  able  to  let  you  have  one.  I  don't  know 
of  any  one  else — you  see,  they're  all  out  fishin'." 

And  Mr.  Sylva,  Portuguese,  a  big,  soft-voiced 
man  with  flashing  black  eyes,  was  greatly  dis- 
tressed, but  could  not  get  us  a  boat: 

"Maybe,  to-morrow — we  see." 

But  it  doesn't  matter.  It  is  just  as  pleasant,  per- 
haps even  more  so,  to  make  your  way,  somewhat 
gingerly,  out  to  the  end  of  one  of  the  old  wharves, 
there  to  sit  and  watch  an  enthusiastic  artist,  palette 
-»-  229-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

on  thumb,  sketching  the  clustering  town,  with  its 
red  roofs  climbing  one  above  the  other  so  steeply 
from  the  water's  edge.  Each  wharf  has  its  artist, 
as  well  as  its  small,  adventurous  boys,  who  appear 
to  be  partly  amphibian,  from  the  careless  way  in 
which  they  tumble  in  and  out  of  the  water  or  grub 
about  waist-high  after  hidden  treasure  when  the 
tide  is  low. 

The  wharves  are  most  dilapidated,  with  huge 
gaping  holes  and  whole  boards  missing,  and  bear- 
ing old  signs  that  warn  the  passer  of  peril  if  he 
tread  upon  them.  They  are  about  equal  in  risk 
to  the  wooden  sidewalks  of  a  western  mining  camp 
whose  boom  is  over,  only  here  you  drop  into  the 
sea  instead  of  a  dry  gully  or  arroyo. 

We  found  it  great  fun  to  get  on  one  of  the  buses 
in  the  evening,  while  the  sunset  still  flushed  the  sky 
and  echoed  in  the  water,  and  go  trundling  up  and 
down  the  street  from  the  Truro  line  at  one  end 
to  the  junction  of  Front  and  Back  at  the  other.  Be- 
yond this  point  the  street  still  continues,  but  it  is 
narrower,  and  is  known  here  as  Way  Up  Along. 
You  go  on  afoot  here,  if  you  choose,  to  the  Break- 
water, and  then  on  that  to  the  beach  opposite 
where  the  surf  breaks,  and  Woodsend  Light  is  set 
to  guide  the  mariner,  one  of  the  five  that  are  nec- 
essary along  this  dangerous  shore. 

Of  course,  one  morning,  we  did  choose.    As  we 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

reached  the  point  where  the  stone  is  set  that  marks 
the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  we  met  a  Ford  con- 
taining a  couple  with  the  honeymooner  look.  They 
stopped. 

"  Can  you  tell  us  where  the  rest  of  Provincetown 
is?  "  the  young  man  asked  us. 

"  How  much  have  you  seen?  " 

"  We've  just  come  right  along  the  road  here 
from  Truro." 

"  Well,  when  you  go  back,  take  the  road  to  the 
left,  keep  on  past  the  railway  station  and  as  far  as 
Allerton  Lane.  That  will  take  you  back  into  the 
Truro  Road,  and  there  you  have  the  whole  of 
Provincetown  unless  you  want  to  walk." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  smiling. 

"  Can  you  beat  it!  We  thought  this  place  was  a 
big  town.  But  it's  been  a  good  run,  anyhow,  if 
there  ain't  much  at  the  end  of  it."  And  nodding 
to  us,  they  bustled  away,  on  the  search,  I  suppose, 
for  a  nice  crowded  city.  There  was  a  country 
freshness  about  them,  and  it  was  the  whirl  of  life 
they  wanted,  not  village  peace  nor  nature's 
solitudes. 

Walking  on  the  breakwater,  made  as  it  is  of  huge 
blocks  and  slabs  of  Cape  Ann  granite,  with  the 
water  running  through  beneath  your  feet  with  all 
manner  of  little  gurgles  and  tinklings,  with  the 
gulls  crying  overhead  and  a  breeze  playing  round 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

you,  is  distinctly  good  fun.  It  revives  the  joys  of 
childhood,  when  you  tripped  along  the  top  of  any 
flat  wall  that  came  in  your  way,  or  sprang  from 
stone  to  stone  up  the  rushing  brook  when  spring 
had  filled  it.  There  is  a  full  mile  of  this  walking, 
and  then  the  beach  of  golden  sand,  the  Life  Sav- 
ing Station,  the  Lighthouse,  snow  white  and  at- 
tractive. A  bit  of  garden  braved  the  sea,  some  men 
were  at  work  painting  a  boat.  We  sat  at  the  edge 
of  the  surf  while  little  sandpipers  dashed  curi- 
ously toward  us  and  off  again  with  squeaks  of  ex- 
citement. 

Just  as  the  Chinese  date  their  history  from  the 
dynasties  of  their  emperors,  so  Provincetown  dates 
hers  from  the  great  storms  that  have  proved  par- 
ticularly destructive  and  terrible.  They  still  speak 
of  the  "  Magee  storm,"  when  a  government  ship 
went  down  in  1778,  of  the  "  Great  October  Gale  " 
of  1842,  ami  it  is  said  that  the  only  ship  that  was 
ever  got  off  Peaked  Hill  Bar,  once  she  went 
aground,  was  the  San  Francisco,  in  a  bad  storm 
during  the  Spanish  War  of  1898,  who  was  safely 
brought  into  port 

The  keepers  of  the  string  of  lighthouses  along 
this  treacherous  arm  of  sand  have  an  anxious  life 
of  it.  Now  that  the  canal  is  cut  through  the  Cape 
a  great  amount  of  coastwise  travel  will  no  longer 
have  to  take  this  roundabout  and  dangerous  course, 


Vtyj&*£\'>        ^t,; 


^%5T-    ^^^%^- 


__*  "to*?*- '>i<'':;"'r**         /*2BPlst'i-— =ar  ••' xf     -—SaffA**.  JZ&^v***^     Jm 

•' fc"^4'^xx'— *Tii*l  '''V.-'fev.'^..  fei^^frii^^iK"  v. 


.^Pi^ 


-  l^.-^l?  ''  ::"S!'-'  !Z  r4*f^S^I^''m 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

but  the  seagoers  and  the  fishing  fleets  still  watch 
for  those  far-reaching  beams  as  anxiously  as 
ever. 

A  huge  bell  hangs  before  the  Woodsend  house, 
lending  its  aid  in  the  fogs  that  are  even  more 
dreaded  than  the  tempests.  Man  and  the  elements 
play  a  close  game  from  end  to  end  of  the  New 
England  coast. 

One  strange  case  was  that  of  the  "  Somerset,"  an 
English  man-of-war  chased  by  the  French  fleet 
during  the  Revolution,  and  striking  on  Peaked 
Hill  Bar.  A  gang  of  wreckers  from  Provincetown 
took  everything  from  her  that  was  worth  the  work 
of  removing,  and  left  her  high  and  dry  on  the 
sands.  Gradually  she  was  buried  from  sight,  and 
as  the  years  went  on  she  was  forgotten.  Then, 
in  1886,  a  series  of  high  tides  and  furious  seas  tore 
away  the  shrouding  sand,  and  the  skeleton  frigate 
was  once  again  exposed  to  the  enemy,  this  time  to 
be  picked  over  by  summer  tourists  and  relic 
hunters.  Then  again  the  sands  mounted  and  hid 
her,  the  grass  grew,  and  to-day  no  sign  of  the  great 
ship  is  left. 

Provincetown  folk  had  plenty  of  the  New  Eng- 
land cantankerousness,  at  least  in  the  past.  Front 
Street  has  in  parts  superseded  its  long  plank  walk 
with  concrete,  but  this  walk  was  once  the  subject 
of  bitter  controversy  in  the  town.  For,  when  An- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

drew  Jackson  gave  the  seaport  its  share  of  the  Sur- 
plus Revenue,  this  money  was  devoted  to  building 
"  a  wooden  footway  "  that  would  save  the  towns- 
folk from  the  necessity  of  struggling  through 
ankle-deep  sand  as  soon  as  they  stepped  out  of 
doors. 

The  element  opposed  to  this  use  of  the  money 
was  so  enraged  at  being  beaten  that  it  refused  ever 
to  use  the  walk,  and  plodded  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  with  its  shoes  full  of  sand  and  its  heart  of 
bitterness  till  its  dying  day. 

The  Portuguese  part  of  the  town  is  particularly 
fascinating.  Here  the  little  lanes  are  no  more 
than  foot  tracks,  and  go  twining  in  and  out  between 
lovely,  brilliant  bits  of  gardens  and  small  cottages, 
some  weatherbeaten  grey,  others  white  as  the  stones 
that  are  set  about  the  flower  beds.  Soft-eyed  chil- 
dren play  on  the  doorsteps,  wearing  cotton  dresses 
of  orange,  blue,  scarlet,  anything  gay  that  comes  to 
hand.  From  the  cottages  come  snatches  of  foreign 
song  as  the  mothers  go  about  their  household  tasks, 
getting  dinner  ready  for  the  olive-skinned  men 
working  in  the  little  farms  that  only  a  Portuguese 
could  bring  to  harvest  there  among  the  sand-hills, 
or  fishing  out  in  the  harbour  for  bait  that  will  be 
used  in  deep-sea  work. 

Many  a  charming  walk  lured  us  out  among  those 
same  hills.    Desolate  old  graveyards  lie  here,  the 
-4.234-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

sand  tossing  over  the  bones  below  as  the  sea  tosses 
over  those  that  found  their  last  bed  in  the  water. 
There  are  the  cemeteries  of  the  Methodists  and  the 
Quakers,  where  some  attempt  at  decoration  has 
been  made,  and  the  Catholic  burying  ground 
where  stark  crosses  give  the  spot  a  look  of  the 
battlefield. 

Leaving  these  behind  the  wandering  paths  take 
you  on  between  fragrant  pines  to  the  shores  of 
clear  ponds.  In  one  of  these  the  Pilgrims  washed 
their  accumulation  of  soiled  linen  while  they 
awaited  the  reports  of  the  exploring  party.  Now 
they  harbour  wild  fowl,  and  are  left  as  solitary  as 
though  there  was  never  a  home  or  a  house  within 
fifty  miles. 

On  Way  Up  Along  there  is  a  Red  Inn  that  is  a 
delectable  hostelry  run  by  a  New  York  woman 
who  has  had  the  old  house  altered  and  enlarged 
for  her  purpose  with  the  most  careful  considera- 
tion of  its  original  form  and  aspect.  It  is  perhaps 
the  oldest  house  in  Provincetown,  and  was  known 
for  years  as  the  Old  Red  House.  Inside  it  has  the 
narrowest  staircase  that  ever  allowed  a  family  to 
get  from  one  story  to  another.  New  England  fish- 
erfolk  do  not  run  to  fat,  and  certainly  no  one  who 
lived  in  this  house  could  ever  have  approached 
stoutness.  There  is  another  stairway  to-day,  in  the 
new  portion  of  the  building,  but  the  old  one,  and 
-+235-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  old  rooms,  with  their  low  ceilings  and  charm- 
ing proportions,  remain  as  they  were. 

The  view  is  one  of  the  best  in  town,  and  you  can 
slip  on  a  bathing  suit  in  the  early  morning  and 
drop  right  off  the  veranda  into  the  silver  water, 
warm  as  new  milk.  Each  room  has  its  charming 
colour  scheme,  its  private  bath,  its  quaint  and  com- 
fortable furnishings. 

The  place  was  like  an  old  story  beautifully  told 
rather  than  a  real  thing.  To  any  one  seeking  lux- 
ury and  unerring  taste  in  the  picturesque  seclusion 
of  this  old  town,  the  Old  Red  Inn  is  a  counsel  of 
perfection. 

The  artist,  Charles  Hawthorne,  has  a  school  in 
Provincetown  that  is  rapidly  becoming  famous. 
Since  we  determinedly  claim  a  remote  cousinship 
with  this  painter  we  tried  to  find  him,  but  he  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  his  summer  studio,  though  signs 
of  life  about  the  place  spoke  of  his  imminence. 
Every  now  and  then  on  the  street  a  palpable  art 
student  swung  by,  in  smock  and  futurist  colouring 
if  a  woman,  and  sometimes  if  a  man.  Province- 
town  does  not  turn  her  head  as  they  pass,  though 
New  York  would  probably  block  her  traffic  for  a 
better  view.  The  seaport  considers  them  as  useful 
in  their  way  as  the  now  vanished  cod  and  mackerel 
were  to  its  past.  It  sells  them  its  goods  and  poses 
for  them  in  oils  and  souVesters,  and  rents  them  its 
-*-  236  •*- 


OE  NEW  ENGLAND 

cottages,  as  well  as  rambling  rooms  in  the 
empty  store  garrets  of  its  tumbing  wharves  for 
studios. 

Provincetown,  more  than  any  other  of  the  sea- 
ports we  had  seen,  gives  a  sense  of  unchangedness. 
There  are  little  new  cottages  with  little  new  names, 
"  Grace  Darling,"  "  Celia,"  "  Wind-Rest,"  to  be 
sure,  but  they  are  not  noticeable.  Its  character  is 
too  absolute,  too  marked,  to  be  affected  by  the  slight 
inroad  to-day  has  made  on  yesterday.  There  it  lies 
among  its  wild  sand-hills  beside  its  wonderful  har- 
bour, quaint,  lovable,  unique,  full  of  stories  of  the 
sea  as  it  is  of  sea  wind,  murmuring  like  a  shell  and 
restful  beyond  any  words. 

"  It  seems  to  have  learned  the  lesson  of  immor- 
tality from  the  sea  and  the  sand,"  Sister  said.  "  It 
will  endure  as  they  endure,  with  immaterial 
changes  and  telling  constancy.  I  want  to  put  on  a 
purple  smock  and  rent  a  studio  on  an  old  wharf 
and  stay  here  forever,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  do." 

Alas  I  It  is  the  simple  wishes  of  the  human  heart 
that  are  the  most  difficult  of  achievement.  In  the 
old  fairy  stories  it  is  the  third  daughter,  who  only 
asks  her  father  to  bring  back  a  white  rose,  while 
her  sisters  demand  pearl  necklaces  and  diamond 
tiaras,  that  puts  him  to  real  trouble  and  danger. 
Our  path  led  back  along  the  length  of  the  Cape  to 
-H  237  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  palaces  of  Newport,  and  the  red  roofs  of  Prov- 
incetown  might  shelter  us  no  longer. 

"  This  is  the  last  of  the  small  places,"  I  moaned, 
as  we  packed  for  departure.  "  The  more  I  see  of 
them,  and  the  more  I  see  of  cities,  the  surer  I  am 
that  the  latter  are  no  fit  dwelling  place  for  a  human 
being.  It  is  the  little  places  that  we  love.  Home, 
in  other  words,  should  be  where  the  heart  is." 

We  looked  up  the  street  that  went  so  leisurely 
on  its  way,  depositing  its  houses  at  greater  and 
greater  intervals  in  the  direction  of  Truro,  giving 
room  to  the  boats  that  prodded  its  very  sidewalk, 
reaching  out  its  long  wooden  arms  into  the  har- 
bour, edging  close  to  its  gardens,  and  hospitably 
receiving  its  little  green  lanes  that  ran  to  it  in 
search  of  the  sea.  Yes,  it  hadn't  taken  long  to  learn 
to  love  it. 

"  You  may  jest,  but  your  heart  is  breaking,  like 
my  own,"  declared  Sister.  "  But,  thank  goodness, 
we  have  one  more  dinner  coming  to  us  at  the  Cen- 
tral. Let  us  go  and  eat  it." 


238 


Newport 


CHAPTER  X 

Newport 


|HERE  is  a  very  pretty  sail  from  Fall 
River  to  Newport,  first  through  Mount 
Hope  Bay  and  then  into  Narragansett, 
as  diversified  and  lovely  a  sheet  of  water 
as  the  Atlantic  provides.  So  we  decided  to  make 
the  short  trip  by  boat — and  since  there  was  no  dan- 
ger of  rough  water  Sister  agreed  with  me  that  to 
take  a  train  when  you  might  take  a  boat  was  fool- 
ishness personified. 

We  ate  supper  on  board  while  the  boat  still 
clung  to  the  wharf.  Fall  River  appears  to  be 
mostly  a  collection  of  tall,  many-windowed,  clean, 
and  attractive  factories,  whose  many  wheels  are  all 
turned  by  the  tumbling  swift  river  that  gives  the 
town  its  name.  We  got  back  to  the  deck  just  as 
we  were  pulling  away,  while  the  sun  was  tuning 
up  in  the  west  with  a  red  and  gold  extravaganza, 
which  the  broad  bay  was  doing  its  best,  and  a  most 
creditable  best  it  was,  to  copy. 

It  looked  like  something  Urban  might  do  for 
white-limbed  maidens  to  dance  before. 

We  had  noticed  a  trail  of  rice  as  we  came 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

aboard,  and  now  the  couple  appeared,  shedding 
still  more  of  this  vegetable,  sacred  to  weddings, 
and  giggling  as  they  shed.  They  were  stared  at 
with  that  mingling  of  interest,  amusement,  and  pity 
with  which  honeymooners  are  regarded  in  public 
places,  and  they  seemed  to  enjoy  the  notice  with- 
out bothering  about  its  constituents. 

Four  youthful  marines  who  marched  together 
in  a  solid  phalanx,  watched  them  with  particular 
delight.  When  the  honeymooners  moved,  they 
moved,  and  when  they  paused  the  marines  stood 
rooted.  The  bride,  not  averse  from  this  interest 
in  eight  young  male  eyes,  managed  to  show  that,  if 
deprecating,  she  was  not  unaware  nor  indignant. 
The  newly  made  husband  had  the  air  of  one  who 
says:  "  You  may  be  potential  heroes,  but  look  what 
I've  done." 

The  sunset  continued  to  make  quick,  crafty 
changes  in  its  colour  combinations  and  patterns, 
hoping  to  catch  the  bay  napping.  But  the  bay 
was  alert,  and  doubled  every  move  with  little 
rollicking  variations  of  its  own  that  showed  it 
could  do  more  still  if  it  were  pressed.  And  now 
lighthouses  began  to  swing  their  beams  of  white 
or  flash  up  and  down  like  signal  fires,  red  and 
white,  some  slow,  some  fast.  The  land  turned  dark 
but  held  its  soft  contours.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  perfect 
night.  Lighting  up  its  own  myriad  lamps,  our 
-*-  242  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

galleon  moved  nobly  onward  through  the  pomp, 
carrying  its  freight  of  lovers,  soldiers,  and  ordinary 
folk  toward  whatever  fates  were  theirs.  And  so  we 
swept  on  into  Newport  Harbour,  a  fairy  scene  if 
ever  there  was  one. 

The  Indians  called  Newport  Aquidneck,  which 
is  to  say  The  Island  of  Peace.  This  soft  evening, 
in  the  tranquil  bay,  with  ships  moored  close  on 
every  side,  each  with  its  riding  lights  and  many 
brilliant  from  stem  to  stern,  the  wharves  more 
dusky,  the  mounting  city  behind,  islands  and  points 
of  land  stretching  into  the  harbour,  lighted  with 
chains  of  lamps,  the  name  came  to  mind.  Island 
of  Peace  it  was. 

Now  we  stole  in  and  out  among  the  anchored 
vessels  and  harbour  guides  till  we  reached  the  Fall 
River  Pier,  which  was  crowded  with  people  who 
had  arrived  to  see  the  boat  come  in.  Also,  as  we 
found,  to  see  the  bride  and  groom  on  the  boat.  For 
some  twenty  or  thirty  young  people  were  there  to 
shout,  screech,  and  sing  a  welcome,  interspersed 
with  witticisms  at  the  expense  of  the  groom.  The 
happy  couple  leaned  obligingly  over  the  rail  on  the 
lower  deck  and  listened  to  all,  but  made  no  answer 
beyond  an  occasional  giggle.  Not  so  the  marines. 
They  took  a  hand  at  once,  especially  the  youngest, 
an  energetic  young  man  who  reminded  us  of 
Ortheris,  in  "  Soldiers  Three."  This  boy  cheered 

-+•243-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

when  the  crowd  cheered,  he  jumped  with  joy  when 
a  dance  started  on  the  wharf,  begging  the  whirling 
girls  for  a  turn:  "Say,  you  in  the  pink  dress, 
gimme  a  chance  too,"  or  else  he  shouted  for  songs 
that  he  loved. 

A  sailor  on  the  dock  observed  him  and  called  up 
some  dark  insult  to  a  marine.  What  it  was  we 
couldn't  hear,  but  Ortheris  immediately  started  to 
climb  over  the  boat's  side,  stuttering  broken 
phrases.  His  companions  laid  stout  hands  on  him 
and  hauled  him  firmly  back. 

"  D'you  hear  what  he  said?  He  wouldn't  dast 
say  that  if  I  was  down  there — lemme  get  at  him, 
I  tell  you."  Then  he  raised  his  voice,  begging,  im- 
ploring that  sailor  to  come  on  deck  where  he'd 
show  him.  And  then,  the  welcoming  party  on  the 
dock  starting  a  new  song,  he  burst  into  applause. 
When  they  had  finished,  "  Give  us  '  A  Bit  o' 
Heaven,'  "  he  implored,  and  still  he  begged  for 
that  morsel  of  blessedness,  and  still  the  crowd  sang 
other  songs. 

And  so  we  left  him,  every  inch  alive  and  active, 
surging  full  of  youth,  ready  to  love,  readier  to 
fight,  friends  with  all  the  world  and  fit  for  any  ad- 
venture. There  are  many  in  Newport's  cottages 
who  might  envy  him,  though  you  could  hardly 
convince  them  of  the  fact. 

There  are  two  distinct  Newports,  one  of  which 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

is  a  splendid  bore  and  the  other  full  of  history, 
charm,  and  colour.  The  Newport  of  Washington 
Square  and  Touro  and  Clarke  and  Farwell  and 
Pelham  and  Thames  Streets,  the  Newport  of  the 
wharves,  the  Newport  of  the  Point,  where  the  old 
prim  hiproofed  houses  edge  the  water  between 
strips  of  garden,  where  ancient  men  potter  about 
mending  lobster  pots  and  painting  boats  a  bright 
pea-green ;  the  Newport  of  Trinity  Church  with  its 
lovely  spire  and  ancient  graveyard,  where  among 
other  "  noteworthy  corpses,"  as  an  old  lady  told  me, 
lies  the  Comte  Louis  d'Arsac  de  Ternay,  of  the  suite 
of  Rochambeau,  a  visitor  at  Newport  during  the 
Revolution,  where,  in  the  old  house  that  is  now  oc- 
cupied by  the  Newport  Charity  Organization,  he 
and  Washington  discussed  the  plans  that  brought 
about  the  final  victory.  That  is  the  Newport  Sister 
and  I  lingered  in  and  found  good.  There  you 
really  do  find  cottages,  grey  and  vine-hung,  shelter- 
ing under  huge  buttonwood  trees,  as  they  call  the 
sycamores,  and  growing  clumps  of  daffodils  among 
the  grass  of  their  old  lawns.  But  of  course  all  this 
is  not  "  the  real  "  Newport.  That  has  its  heart  in 
the  Casino,  and  sits  proudly  on  the  cliffs,  having 
spent  all  the  money  it  can  in  every  way  it  can 
think  of,  struggling  for  luxury  and  social  eminence 
with  a  whole-hearted  devotion  that  fill  the  be- 
holder with  amused  admiration. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

"  Cottages"  first  became  an  institution  in  1852, 
when  there  were  twelve  magnificent  houses  owned 
by  Bostoners  and  Southerners,  for  it  was  the  South 
that  first  made  Newport  a  summer  resort.  The 
winter  that  followed  the  summer  of  '52  was  a  great 
one  in  Newport's  history.  More  than  sixty  cottages 
were  built  by  persons  whose  chief  idea  was  to  look 
as  though  they  had  never  entered  a  cottage  in  their 
lives.  By  1879  Bellevue  Avenue  as  far  as  Bailey's 
Beach  was  adorned  with  wondrous  homes.  An 
article  published  in  that  year  in  the  Providence 
"  Journal  "  has  these  words : 

"  Every  known  and  unknown  order  of  architec- 
ture is  represented.  The  styles  of  old  Germany 
and  modern  France,  of  Switzerland  and  Italy,  of 
England  and  the  isles  of  the  sea,  are  faithfully  re- 
produced." It  goes  on  to  tell  of  the  gardens, 
"  standing  out  in  bold  relief  are  trees  like  the  elm, 
the  oak,  and  the  sugar  maple,"  and  further  it  dilates 
upon  the  "  graperies,"  where  fruits  "  are  ripened 
almost  at  will.  Nectarines,  apricots,  peaches,  and 
figs  grow  in  the  graperies.  Tiny  dwarf  trees  are 
set  in  pots,  and  when  ripened  fruit  hangs  on  the 
branches  the  trees  are  placed  upon  the  dining  table 
that  the  guests  may  pluck  the  fruit  themselves." 

Where  now  are  those  hundred  and  two  hundred 
thousand   dollar  cottages,   those   graperies,   those 
simple,  fruit-plucking  guests? 
-»•  246-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Disappeared  more  utterly  than  the  shingled 
houses  of  the  Point  and  the  wharves  where  once  a 
dozen  West  India  men  were  docked  in  a  single  day. 
These  still  remain,  solid  and  genuine  as  the  land 
on  which  they  stand  and  the  water  into  which  they 
project.  But  where  those  early  German  and  late 
French  and  nondescript  rich  men's  homes  stood  so 
flamboyantly  there  are  now  other  cottages  on 
which  millions  have  been  spent,  built  of  white 
marble  and  porphyry,  pillared  and  arched  and 
huge,  roofing  over  a  vast  collection  of  resplendent 
rooms,  superb  witnesses  of  what  can  be  accom- 
plished, if  you  put  your  money  to  it,  in  getting 
away  from  the  mode  of  life  indulged  in  by  our 
cave-dwelling  ancestors. 

Actually,  there  is  a  third  Newport,  besides  these 
two  extremes.  It  is  the  Newport  of  the  boarding 
house.  The  town  is  filled  with  them.  Practically 
everything  that  isn't  a  cottage  or  a  public  building 
is  a  boarding  house.  And  to  these  lodgings,  for 
their  two  weeks  or  month  of  vacation,  come  the 
hardworking  clerks  and  stenographers,  come  the 
shop-girls  and  the  floor  walkers,  come  families 
from  Harlem  and  the  Bronx,  to  have  a  "  good 
time."  They  have  it,  too.  They  walk  where  they 
may  look  at  the  motor  cars  loaded  with  society 
flash  by,  they  point  out  individuals  known  to  them 
through  the  Sunday  supplements,  they  even  get 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

glimpses  of  tennis  and  polo,  and  they  row  into  the 
bay  out  around  the  famous  yachts.  All  the 
glamour  of  the  Midas  fairyland  shines  for  them, 
they  admire  its  clothes  and  are  shocked  at  its  man- 
ners, and  go  home  refreshed,  unconsciously,  by  the 
soft  sea  air  and  misty  skies  of  the  beautiful  place, 
and  stimulated  by  a  view  of  those  human  heights 
which  if  not  they,  then  surely  their  grandchildren, 
shall  attain  some  distant  but  never  impossible  day. 

The  mystery  of  Newport  is  the  old  Stone  Tower 
or  mill,  and  to  this  Sister  and  I  bent  our  steps  after 
an  excellent  breakfast  in  a  small  hotel  in  the  old 
town. 

"  Everything  old  in  Newport  lies  just  round  this 
old  tower,"  I  told  Sister,  and  we  decided  that  we'd 
see  the  old  first.  Our  time  was  not  long,  and  why 
should  we  risk  losing  what  we  chiefly  cared  for? 
The  palaces  must  wait,  poor  things.  After  all, 
there  is  always  something  ludicrous  about  a  new 
palace.  The  old  fellows  belonged,  just  as  knights 
in  armour  and  courtiers  in  silk  and  satin  belonged 
to  their  own  age.  Nowadays  the  appearance  of  a 
cocked  hat  or  an  embroidered  waistcoat  would  be 
an  occasion  for  hilarity,  and  the  discomfort  of  even 
the  best  chain  armour  was  pointed  out  years  ago 
by  Mark  Twain.  But  the  humour  and  oppression 
of  wearing  a  huge  ornamental  house  has  not  yet 
been  so  widely  recognised. 

.-+  248  H- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

Washington  Square  was  paved  in  1772  from  the 
proceeds  of  a  lottery,  Pelham  Street  sharing  in  the 
good  fortune.  It  must  have  been  a  big  haul,  for 
the  paving  has  lasted  nobly.  Up  at  the  head  of  the 
Square  is  the  Court  House,  which  used  to  be  the 
old  State  House,  built  in  1738,  a  dignified  and  sat- 
isfactory structure.  The  balcony  of  this  house  has 
been  the  scene  of  many  proclamations.  Here  in 
1761  the  accession  of  George  III  was  announced, 
and  here  in  '76  the  Declaration  was  read  by  Major 
John  Handy.  For  many  years  the  elections  of  the 
Governors  of  the  state  were  here  declared.  In  the 
old  Senate  Chamber  is  the  Stuart  portrait  of  Wash- 
ington. In  the  little  park  the  statue  of  Perry 
stands,  almost  in  front  of  the  house  he  bought 
shortly  before  his  death,  the  old  Seixas  mansion. 
This  fine  building  was  the  bank  of  Rhode  Island 
from  1795  to  1820. 

Touro  Street  leads  you  past  the  Synagogue,  built 
in  1763,  and  the  oldest  in  the  United  States,  to 
Touro  Park  and  the  old  mill.  The  street  used  to  be 
called  the  Street  that  Leads  to  the  Mill,  and  got 
its  present  name  from  the  first  Rabbi.  We  walked 
up  it,  guide  in  hand,  and  gave  dutiful  glances  at 
the  Historical  Society  Building,  where  there  are 
collections  of  old-time  things,  Indian  relics,  and 
manuscripts,  such  as  every  self-respecting  New 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

England  town  collects  and  displays  for  the  benefit 
of  the  historically  minded. 

The  queer  old  mill  we  found  to  be  as  picturesque 
as  all  the  speculations  concerning  it  demand. 
Built  of  rough  stones,  over  thirty  feet  high,  the 
thick  round  body  of  it  stands  on  a  circle  of  thick 
round  pillars  of  the  same  rough-hewn  stone.  An 
iron  fence  surrounds  it. 

For  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  that  tower 
stood  there,  a  conspicuous  object  from  the  sea  be- 
fore the  town  was  as  built  up  as  it  is  at  present, 
and  no  one  bothered  about  its  historic  significance. 
It  was  just  a  ruin  from  which  the  woodwork  had 
fallen  or  been  stolen.  What  it  had  been  used  for 
people  did  not  trouble  to  inquire,  nor  would  an 
answer  have  come. 

Then  some  one  with  an  "  eye  "  remarked  that  the 
architecture  was  distinctly  Norse. 

Whereupon  the  tower  sprang  into  the  limelight 
and  fame  was  thrust  upon  it.  Danish  scholars  de- 
cided that  the  tower  had  been  built  by  ancestors 
of  theirs  long  ages  before  the  Columbian  discovery 
of  America.  The  old  sagas  that  sang  of  far  jour- 
neys to  a  strange  land  were  once  more  deciphered, 
bringing  delightful  proof  of  the  ancient  construc- 
tion of  this  stone  mystery.  Moreover,  was  there 
not  on  the  shore  of  Taunton  River,  a  tidal  stream 
of  Narragansett  Bay,  a  curious  rock  carved  over 
-*- 250-*- 


Trinity  Church 
Newport 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

with  hieroglyphics  which  had  long  puzzled  stu- 
dents and  laity  alike?  There  was,  what  is  more 
there  still  is.  Though  time  and  water  have  done 
their  best  to  erase  the  strange  carving,  it  is  still 
traceable.  There  had  been  those  who  claimed  the 
work  of  Indian  origin.  But  the  Danes  who  looked 
upon  it  swore  that  it  was  the  work  of  their  wild 
forefathers. 

So  here  was  a  tower  and  here  was  a  stone.  And 
then  came  the  man. 

He  was  only  a  skeleton,  but  he  had  that  about 
him  which  spoke  as  loudly  as  words.  Attached  to 
his  breast  was  a  shield  of  brass,  and  round  his  mid- 
dle hung  a  belt  curiously  worked,  of  the  same 
staunch  metal. 

He  was  discovered  buried  deep  in  Fall  River 
township,  and  the  Danes  who  saw  the  armour  said 
it  was  the  same  as  that  worn  by  men  in  their  own 
land  before  the  twelfth  century.  The  chain  was 
complete. 

But  it  was  all  a  Cook's  tale  without  foundation. 
For  the  tower  turned  out  to  be  like  one  or  two 
others  that  had  been  built  in  scattered  portions  of 
New  England,  and  was  moreover  mentioned  in  the 
will  of  Governor  Benedict  Arnold,  1677,  as  "  my 
stonebuilt  windmill."  And  the  more  the  Runic 
characters  of  the  stone  were  studied,  the  less  in- 
telligible they  became.  As  for  the  skeleton,  the 
-+•251  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

brass  he  wore  was  not  the  sort  that  the  Scandina- 
vians beat  into  arms  or  armour,  and  did  very  closely 
resemble  the  work  of  the  native  Indians,  a  chain 
about  his  neck  being  almost  identical  with  others 
discovered  in  the  burial  places  of  the  red 
men. 

So  there  was  an  end  of  the  Norse  significance 
of  the  tower,  which  once  again  became  a  mill;  re- 
maining none  the  less  precisely  as  beautiful  and  pic- 
turesque as  it  was  before  the  story  was  told  and 
disproved.  What  is  more,  Longfellow  believed  in 
the  tale  at  least  strongly  enough  to  write  "  The 
Skeleton  in  Armour,"  and  tell  how: 

'  There,  for  my  lady's  bower, 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  seaward" 

We  looked  upon  it,  moralising  how  stories  are 
born  and  grow  and  die. 

"  Still,"  remarked  Sister,  "  old  Governor 
Arnold's  will  doesn't  say  that  he  built  the  tower. 
Perhaps  he  just  requisitioned  it,  and  it  was  here 
before  he  came.  And  after  all  the  Runic  Stone  is 
there  too,  and  the  characters  are  as  likely  to  be 
Scandinavian  as  Indian.  And  the  skeleton  might 
have  been  a  Norseman  who  had  lost  his  own 
weapons  and  was  carrying  Indian  ones,  and  fell 
.-*-  252  -*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  was  buried.  They  do  say  you  know  that  he 
was  bigger  than  any  Indian." 

"  I  wonder  if  any  one  has  dug  under  the  tower 
to  see  whether  the  lady  of  the  ballad,  with  the  mild 
blue  eyes,  who  was  buried  there  by  the  Skeleton, 
is  truly  there?  That  would  go  a  long  way  to  prove 
it  all  fact." 

So  we  left  the  tower  and  walked  round  Wash- 
ington Square,  a  most  attractive  place,  and  to  Trin- 
ity Church. 

The  spire  of  this  exquisite  church  is  as  perfect 
as  anything  in  America.  It  is  more  decorated  than 
that  at  Newburyport,  without  losing  anything  in 
dignity  and  chastity  of  style.  If  Newport  had 
nothing  in  it  worth  seeing  but  this  old  church,  it 
would  be  well  worth  a  journey.  The  trees  before 
it,  the  graveyard  beside  it,  with  the  white  burial 
slabs  and  crosses,  the  fine  old  gambrel-roofed 
houses  near  it,  all  lend  their  aid  in  the  ensemble. 

It  was  in  1727  that  Dean  Berkeley  came  to  New- 
port, on  his  way,  as  he  supposed,  to  Bermuda,  there 
to  found  a  University  for  the  "  instruction  of  the 
youth  of  America."  Romantic  mission!  Perhaps, 
if  it  had  succeeded,  Bermuda  would  now  be  a  Uni- 
versity centre,  with  college  men  and  college  girls 
overflowing  its  rosy  coral  beaches  and  shattering 
its  silences,  which  not  even  a  motor  cycle  is  al- 
lowed to  disturb,  with  staccato  college  yells.  It 
-*•  253  •+- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

was  Roger  Walpole  who  pricked  the  gentle 
bishop's  bubble,  announcing,  after  the  Dean  had 
waited  for  three  or  four  years  in  Newport  for  the 
promised  funds,  that  if  he  were  waiting  there  with 
the  notion  that  twenty  thousand  pounds  were  com- 
ing to  him  from  any  exchequer  over  which  Sir 
Robert  had  control  he  might  as  well  desist. 

During  his  stay  in  Newport  the  Dean  preached 
many  a  sermon  in  Trinity  Church  and  here,  in  the 
graveyard,  he  buried  his  infant  daughter,  Lucia, 
the  stone  still  standing.  He  must  have  been  a  most 
lovable  as  he  was  a  most  distinguished  man.  To 
the  old  farmhouse,  called  Whitehall,  where  he 
lived,  came  every  one  of  importance  who  visited 
the  town.  It  was  built  in  a  green  vale  behind  the 
sea,  and  once,  when  a  friend  inquired  why  the 
bishop  lived  where  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 
he  replied  that  "  if  a  prospect  were  continually  in 
view  it  would  lose  its  charm."  That  he  enjoyed 
a  "  prospect "  seems  to  be  clear  from  the  fact  that 
you  are  still  shown  "  The  Bishop's  Rock,"  an  over- 
hanging cliff  where  he  is  said  to  have  had  a  study, 
that  commands  water. 

Pastor  Honeyman  was  preaching  in  the  three- 
decker  pulpit  of  the  old  church  the  day  the  Dean 
arrived,  with  his  wife  and  three  learned  friends, 
but  the  service  was  brought  to  a  hasty  close,  and 
pastor  and  congregation  all  hurried  out  to  the 
-+ 254-1- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

wharf  to  welcome  the  great  arrival.  In  those  days 
Newport  must  have  been  a  wonderful  town.  Every 
sect  was  free  to  worship  there,  for  Roger  Williams 
opposed  no  man's  method  of  communicating  with 
his  God.  Here  were  of  course  many  Quakers, 
Baptists,  Methodists.  Here  too  were  the  gayer 
elements  of  the  fashionable  world,  dressed  out  in 
scarlet  and  purple  and  fine  laces  and  with  plumes 
to  their  hats.  The  Dean  of  Derry  found  the  town 
a  most  likable  place  during  those  months  he  spent 
in  it  before  retiring  to  the  farm.  During  this  stay 
he  made  several  visits  to  the  Continent,  as  his  wife 
called  the  mainland.  Newport  was  even  more  of 
an  island  in  those  days  than  it  is  now,  an  entirely 
separate  thing  from  the  state  of  Rhode  Island,  with 
farmlands,  wildernesses,  and  woods  of  its  own.  It 
was  distinct  from  the  Continent. 

Berkeley  exercised  an  amazing  influence  on 
Newport,  for  he  was  a  man  of  the  most  urban 
breeding,  of  deep  scholarship  that  sat  upon  him 
lightly,  of  a  broad  and  tolerant  mind.  He  knew 
Europe  well,  and  brought  with  him  the  atmos- 
phere of  all  the  capitals  in  the  old  land;  he  had 
been  friends  with  its  great  and  wise  men,  and  was 
himself  great  and  wise. 

Among  all  the  narrowness,  the  fierce  sectarian- 
ism, the  absorption  in  fish  or  in  maize  or  in  other 
people's  sins  which  marked  New  England  from 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

end  to  end,  Newport  stands  out  as  a  place  where 
art  was  loved,  where  architecture  and  books  were 
studied — the  Redwood  Library  was  built  in  1750 
— and  where  men  could  worship  as  they  chose. 
Here  in  this  little  corner  there  was  true  freedom. 

It  is  curious  to  remember  that  the  town,  now,  is 
thought  of  chiefly  as  a  social  playhouse.  It  seemed 
on  the  road  to  be  an  American  Athens,  or  the 
centre  of  another  renaissance.  But  the  artists  and 
the  philosophers  and  the  students  and  the 
preachers  have  gone  elsewhere,  or  never  arrived  at 
all,  and  the  rigorous  rules  of  society  have  super- 
seded the  free  spirit  of  the  arts  and  sciences.  It 
was  in  Newport  that  gas  got  its  first  trial,  Dan 
Melville  having  lighted  his  house  and  even  his 
street  with  it,  before  ever  even  London  used  it, 
and  it  owned  Stiles,  who  observed  the  transit  of 
Venus  in  1769,  and  capped  Dean  Berkeley's 
famous  line,  "  Westward  the  course  of  Empire 
takes  its  way,"  with  the  prophecy  that  English 
would  be  the  vernacular  of  "  more  people  than 
any  one  tongue  ever  was  on  earth  except  the 
Chinese." 

We  walked  up  to  the  lovely  Jewish  cemetery, 
fenced  with  granite  and  iron,  and  marvellously 
abloom  with  the  new  summer's  flowers.  We  en- 
tered the  Redwood  Library,  with  its  splendid  fern- 
leaf  beech  sending  dancing  shadows  shivering 
-*-  256  -*-. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

over  the  fagade;  we  looked  upon  the  old  Market 
House,  now  turned  into  offices,  but  retaining  its 
fine  proportions,  the  design  of  Peter  Harrison,  one 
of  Newport's  first  architects,  and  we  lingered  by 
the  Channing  Memorial  Church,  with  the  statue  of 
William  Ellery  Channing,  caught  in  a  gesture  of 
benediction,  standing  before  it  in  the  Square. 
Wherever  we  went,  old  Newport  smiled  upon  us 
with  a  winsomeness,  a  charm,  that  was  like  the  old 
spirit  of  it. 

"  We  never  knew  anything  of  this  side  of  New- 
port," was  the  burden  of  our  remarks.  The  pic- 
turesque old  Coddington  burial  ground,  holding  so 
many  Governors,  the  prim  old  house  where  Feni- 
more  Cooper  wrote  "The  Red  Rover,"  the 
Nichols  House  on  the  corner  of  Farwell  Street, 
once  the  famous  White  Horse  Tavern — all  of  these 
belonged  to  pages  of  Newport  we  had  never  seen 
turned. 

"  And  now,"  said  Sister,  as  we  finished  break- 
fast on  the  third  morning  of  our  stay,  "  let's  take 
the  great  Cliff  Walk  and  go  to  Purgatory  and 
watch  the  sea  sweep  up  on  the  beaches." 

It  was  one  of  those  silver-mist  days  that  seem 
to  belong  to  the  island.  A  soft  sweet  climate  is 
Newport's  boast,  and  a  true  one,  so  far  as  our 
experience  went.  People  who  live  there  tell  you 
it  is  never  very  cold  nor  very  hot,  and  way  back  in 
-1-257*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

the  seventeenth  century  the  climate  drew  words  of 
praise  from  those  who  lived  in  it. 

The  natural  scenery  of  this  walk  along  the  cliff 
tops  is  extraordinarily  varied,  considering  that  it  is 
only  about  three  miles  long.  We  reached  it  by  way 
of  Bellevue  Avenue,  stopping  before  we  turned 
eastward  on  the  walk  to  look  at  Bailey's  Beach, 
private,  where  the  fashionable  people  bathe,  well 
thumped  by  the  surf.  The  Public  Beach  is 
weedier,  more  sheltered,  also  more  crowded, 
maybe  safer. 

Walking  on  a  cliff  that  overhangs  the  ocean  is  an 
excellent  occupation.  We  wondered  that  we  were 
practically  alone  in  it.  Bellevue  Avenue  had  been 
crowded  with  motor  cars,  buzzing  away  to  Ocean 
Drive,  that  swings  round  the  whole  of  the  south- 
western peninsula.  But  here,  along  the  footpath, 
there  was  room  and  to  spare. 

We  had  taken  our  lunch  with  us,  and  had  the 
day  to  do  what  we  chose  in.  Any  one  who  goes 
to  Newport  and  fails  to  spend  hours  and  days 
along  this  frontier  of  the  sea  loses  the  enjoyment 
of  one  of  the  glories  of  the  New  England  coast. 
At  the  northern  end  of  the  walk  we  reached  broad, 
hard  Easton  Beach,  where  the  surf  rolled  up  mag- 
nificently. The  bathing  season  had  not  really 
started,  yet  there  were  young  men  and  maidens  in 
suits  that  showed  the  modern  influence  running 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

about  on  the  sand  and  flashing  through  the  white 
breakers.  It  was  a  warm  morning,  and  we  felt  like 
joining  them. 

"  Why  didn't  we  bring  our  bathing  suits?  "  we 
mourned.  And  we  wished  that  life  were  not  so 
complicated,  and  that  it  might  be  possible  to  take 
a  swim  without  dressing  for  it.  But  as  it  wasn't, 
we  climbed  upward  again,  for  we  wanted  to  get  a 
look  at  Whitehall,  which  has  been  kept  in  fair 
order  by  the  owner.  It  is  back  from  the  Hanging 
Rocks,  along  a  beckoning  roadway.  The  long 
slope  of  the  roof,  the  fine  front,  the  charming 
greenness  of  its  vale,  make  it  a  spot  well  suited  to 
the  memory  of  the  benign  and  scholarly  man  who 
built  it,  back  in  1729.  There  was  something  very 
modern  about  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  his  house, 
with  its  fruit  trees  and  flowers,  unchanged  since  he 
lived  in  it,  did  not  have  that  aspect  of  desertion 
which  sometimes  hangs  so  desolately  about  old 
landmarks. 

"  One  could  easily  believe  that  a  knock  on  the 
door  would  bring  him  out — and  I  suppose  even 
then  there  was  tea  in  the  garden,  as  there  is  in  Eng- 
lish bishops'  gardens  to  this  day,"  Sister  remarked, 
as  we  sat  in  the  grass  and  gazed  on  the  place. 

We  walked  slowly  back  to  the  sea,  and  did  not 
wonder  that  the  Dean  had  chosen  a  seat  in  the 
rocks  to  write  his  "  Alciphron  "  in.  Calm  and 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

solitary,  Sachuest  Beach,  or  Second  Beach,  as  it  is 
also  called,  shone  softly  in  the  sun,  with  the  blue 
outline  of  the  point  beyond.  The  rocks  are  sep- 
arated by  little  valleys,  ridge  on  ridge,  and  Para- 
dise is  the  name  of  the  section.  It  is  an  appropri- 
ate name,  and  we  ate  our  lunch  in  the  blessed  re- 
gion feeling  that  life  was  good.  We  also  took 
time  to  study  Purgatory,  which  must  be  passed  be- 
fore you  get  to  Paradise.  It  is  a  dark  and  dismal 
gash  in  the  purplish-grey  rocks,  which  seem  to 
have  a  bloom  on  them,  where  the  water  sucks  and 
rushes,  another  Rafe's  Chasm,  in  fact. 

"A  shore  full  of  surprises,"  I  exclaimed. 

Newport  is  the  same — a  place  of  surprises,  of 
contrasts.  The  old  and  the  new  walk  hand  in 
hand,  yet  do  not  merge.  And  everywhere  is 
beauty.  It  may  be  the  Marble  House  built  by  Mrs. 
W.  K.  Vanderbilt,  it  may  be  a  gambrel-roofed 
home  where  history  was  made  a  century  or  two 
ago;  perhaps  you  stand  spellbound  before  the  ar- 
tistic perfection  of  some  wonderful  effect  in  land- 
scape gardening,  along  Bellevue  Avenue,  or  silent 
and  content  on  the  cliff  with  its  seaward  view,  or 
deeply  interested  at  the  wharf-end  where  a  man-of- 
war's  launch  is  spilling  out  a  load  of  Jackies  or  a 
bevy  of  fluffy  girls  is  making  ready  to  get  to  a 
yacht,  or  a  few  old  men  are  swapping  yarns  over 
a  pile  of  nets;  it  doesn't  matter,  for  you  are  sure 
-*-  260-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

to  'decide  that  Newport  is  tremendously  worth 
seeing. 

"  Some  one  has  said  that  the  society  folk  who 
come  here  to  spend  the  prescribed  portion  of  the 
summer  given  over  to  fashion  in  this  town  are 
the  veriest  slaves  of  the  clock.  At  such  an  hour 
Bailey's  Beach,  at  such  the  Casino,  at  such  a  drive, 
at  such  a  luncheon,  a  tea,  a  dinner,  a  dance.  Every 
minute  of  the  time  planned  and  regulated  and 
ruled.  Possibly  it's  so.  The  craving  of  humanity 
to  be  coerced  is  one  of  its  salient  peculiarities.  But 
Newport  itself  is  singularly  free  from  the  tyranny 
of  time.  Its  oldness  is  hale  and  fresh  and  undis- 
turbed by  its  newness." 

We  were  walking  along  Newport's  principal 
business  street,  Thames,  as  these  ideas  found 
words.  Thames  is  so  narrow,  so  winding,  so  quaint 
— only  twenty  feet  wide,  we  were  told — and  yet 
so  thoroughly  capable  of  attending  to  the  most  up- 
to-date  necessities  or  whims. 

It  would  take  much  more  time  than  we  had  to 
give  to  begin  to  know  Newport.  All  we  achieved 
was  a  series  of  impressions.  The  effect  is  cosmo- 
politan and  yet  extremely  individual.  Army,  navy, 
business,  society,  and  sporting  circles  meet  and  mix 
here,  yet  they  are  all  tinged  with  the  old  colouring 
of  ancient  Newport. 

It  was  at  Newport  that  the  French  landed  when 
-*-26i  •*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

they  came  to  throw  in  their  fortunes  with  those 
of  the  struggling  colonies.  One  officer  in  this  fleet 
was  called  Claude  Blanchard.  He  kept  a  diary. 
"  A  small  but  handsome  town,"  says  this  French- 
man. "  The  houses,  though  mostly  of  wood,  are  of 
an  agreeable  shape.  As  for  the  Americans,  they 
are  slow,  and  do  not  decide  promptly  in  matters  of 
business,  nor  is  it  easy  for  us  to  rely  upon  their 
promises.  They  love  money." 

He  also  draws  a  picture  of  the  home  life  of  the 
inhabitants  during  Revolutionary  days  that  is  not 
attractive. 

"Americans  are  almost  constantly  at  table;  and 
as  they  have  little  to  occupy  them,  and  as  they  go 
out  little  in  winter,  spending  whole  days  beside 
their  firesides  and  their  wives,  without  reading, 
without  doing  anything,  going  to  the  table  is  a 
cure  for  ennui.  Yet  they  are  by  no  means  great 


eaters." 


The  Revolution  ruined  Newport  for  a  long 
while,  and  during  its  continuance  there  was  indeed 
little  for  those  in  the  town  to  do.  Frenchmen  have 
often  come  to  the  town  since.  It  was  here  that 
the  well-known  Count  Boni  made  his  American 
debut.  Manners  have  changed.  But  the  town  is 
still  handsome,  and  many  of  the  well-shaped 
wooden  houses  admired  by  Blanchard  still  stand 
and  call  for  admiration. 

-*-262-»- 


New  London 


CHAPTER  XI 

New  London 

EING  in  New  London  was  an  old  habit 
for  us.  Back  in  the  days  when  we  wore 
short  dresses — though  to-day  that  has  no 
relation  to  the  'teens — we  used  to  spend 
delightful  days,  even  weeks,  in  that  old  seaport, 
which  is  now  so  much  more  of  a  manufacturing 
town  than  a  seagoing  one.  When  the  races  were 
held,  there  we  would  be,  in  a  mad  state  of  excite- 
ment, trundled  along  in  a  flat-car  on  which  a  bank 
of  seats  allowed  every  occupant  a  perfect  view. 
We  always  rooted  for  Harvard,  rejoicing  to  de- 
lirium when  she  won,  suffering  beyond  expression 
when  she  lost. 

What  a  scene  it  is!  The  river  so  crowded  up 
to  the  edges  of  the  course,  with  yachts  of  every  cali- 
bre, each  decorated  with  every  shred  of  bunting 
in  the  owner's  possession.  Rowboats  loaded  to 
the  gunwales,  canoes  rocking  on  the  slight  swell  of 
the  tide,  the  Judge's  launch  bustling  importantly 
back  and  forth.  A  ship  or  two  belonging  to  the 
Navy  looking  on  in  calm  dignity.  Every  inch  of 
the  shore  occupied  by  young  girls  in  brilliant 
-*-  265  •*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

dresses  or  in  white  ones,  with  men  in  flannels  and 
ducks,  the  cars  with  streamers  of  bunting,  and  not 
a  hand  in  all  the  assembly  but  it  waves  a  crimson 
or  blue  flag.  Volleys  of  cheers  rose  and  fell,  bands 
played  in  an  irregular  sort  of  manner,  starting  and 
stopping  abruptly,  people  hurried,  boat  whistles 
and  car  whistles  tooted  shrilly. 

Then  the  start,  the  long,  hard  desperation  of  the 
race,  the  tense  thrill  of  a  close  struggle,  the  satis- 
faction or  despair  of  a  walk-over.  Slowly  the 
cars  moved  along,  keeping  in  line  with  those 
slender  shells,  with  the  bending,  straining  bodies. 
We  yelled  and  yelled,  waving  our  flags,  glancing 
contemptuously  at  the  opposing  colours  and  those 
who  yelled  and  waved  on  the  other  side.  And 
then  the  finish,  the  outburst  of  whistles  and  cheers 
rising  to  a  mighty  crescendo,  and  the  crowd  break- 
ing up,  streaming  away,  the  yachts  bobbing,  the 
launches  setting  off  in  a  hundred  directions  at  top 
speed — wonderful!  Each  year  the  crowds  gather, 
turning  New  London  into  a  cross  between  a  county 
fair  and  a  college  commencement,  the  rival  shells 
flash  down  or  up  the  course,  crimson  or  blue  tri- 
umphs, and  all,  even  the  losers,  have  a  perfectly 
gorgeous  time.  For  a  whole  day  the  old  town 
plays  like  a  child  in  the  sun,  youth  fills  its  streets 
and  camps  on  its  verandas,  while  even  the  oldest 
inhabitant  acts  as  though  the  most  important  thing 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  the  world  was  just  that  possible  inch  or  two  be- 
tween the  leading  and  the  beaten  boat.  Nothing 
of  this  sort  is  known  to  any  other  town  in  New 
England. 

In  those  days  we  \ised  to  come  to  New  London 
from  Sag  Harbour,  on  the  other  side  of  Long  Isl- 
and Sound,  a  fine  sail.  The  New  London  boat  was 
a  little,  top-heavy,  important  sort  of  a  craft,  mak- 
ing various  stops  on  its  way,  each  interesting  be- 
cause of  the  glimpse  of  wharf  life,  the  rapid  load- 
ing and  unloading  by  sprightly  porters  of  boxes 
and  barrels  and  sacks,  the  arrival  of  new  passengers 
and  the  departure  of  those  who  had  reached  their 
destination.  As  for  the  harbour  on  which  New 
London  lies,  it  is  full  of  enchantment.  Up  from 
the  Sound  the  boat  puffs  its  way  some  two  or  three 
miles  maybe  through  the  Thames  River.  Little 
coves  reach  into  the  land,  trees  grow  along  the 
shores,  the  Groton  Monument  looms  high  on  the 
opposite  bank,  and  then  the  city  with  its  crowded 
roofs  and  the  long  wharves  that  stand  so  close  to- 
gether, and  are  so  lined  with  ships  and  schooners 
and  sloops  and  barges  and  other  passenger 
steamers.  A  gay,  jolly  approach  to  which  that  by 
rail  cannot  hold  a  candle. 

But  it  was  by  rail  we  came  now.  As  we  drove 
along  State  Street  we  nudged  each  other  at  remem- 
bered sights. 

•+•267*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

There  was  the  Civil  War  Monument,  still  look- 
ing like  a  long  thin  segment  of  layer-cake  stood 
endwise,  just  as  we  had  always  seen  it.  This  ap- 
pearance being  caused  by  a  mingling  of  fancy  and 
the  fact  that  the  monument  is  composed  of  alter- 
nate blocks  of  light  and  dark  stone,  the  dark  about 
half  the  thickness  of  the  light.  On  top  a  female 
figure  stands  rather  forlornly,  and  other  figures, 
of  stalwart  soldiers  and  sailors,  appear  lower 
down. 

There  too  was  the  First  Church,  built  of  stone 
with  a  white  spire  of  wood.  It  dates  only  from 
1851,  but  there  are  no  very  old  churches  in  the 
town,  new  ones  having  been  built  on  the  old  sites 
as  the  city  grew  beyond  the  old  ones. 

New  London  does  not  present  the  appearance 
of  an  old  town,  though  you  run  across  many  a  fine 
old  house  still  surviving.  As  soon  as  you  leave  the 
water's  edge  it  looks  more  like  a  prosperous  but 
somewhat  sleepy  inland  home  city  than  anything 
else.  Its  wide  streets  are  lined  with  comfortable 
suburban  houses  standing  in  their  grounds  and 
shaded  by  elms  and  chestnuts.  There  has  been  no 
attempt  to  follow  the  Colonial  pattern  in  these 
new  buildings.  They  are  of  every  shape  and 
type. 

There  are  parks  and  squares  where  fountains 
spring  up,  where  statues  are  put  to  commemorate 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

historic  happenings  or  famous  sons  of  the  town. 
The  parks  too  seem  to  have  been  created  as  memo- 
rials, for  there  are  the  Hempstead  and  the  Will- 
iams Memorial  parks,  both  charming  and  charm- 
ingly kept  up. 

Width,  space,  leisure,  these  are  the  New  London 
characteristics  that  strike  you,  after  the  green 
wealth  of  trees  and  gardens  and  squares.  The  city 
climbs  up  steeply  from  the  water,  so  that  there  is 
often  an  unexpected  view  of  the  harbour  or  the 
river  that  brings  you  suddenly  back  to  the  realisa- 
tion that  after  all  it  is  a  sea  town.  And  cars  are 
running  to  Ocean  Beach  crowded  with  people  go- 
ing there  for  the  day  or  living  there  in  the  ex- 
tremely pretty  summer  cottages  that  have  been 
built  along  the  water  edge,  as  well  as  on  the  road 
leading  to  it. 

Many  a  happy  day  we  used  to  spend  on  Ocean 
Beach,  playing  in  the  sand  and  on  the  rocks  and  in 
and  out  of  the  water.  The  bath  houses  are  sump- 
tuous affairs,  real  little  bungalows,  with  verandas 
to  them. 

We  had  been  shown  the  little  wooden  house, 
somewhat  disfigured  by  the  window  that  had 
bulged  out  in  front  since  the  days  when  it  was  first 
built,  where  Nathan  Hale  taught  school.  New 
London  is  identified  not  only  with  this  young  hero, 
but  with  the  villain  of  the  Revolution,  Benedict 
-*-  269-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Arnold.  Go  up  to  the  Ancient  Burial  Ground, 
where,  in  one  corner,  Jonathan  Brooks  lies  in  a 
sepulchre.  Many  old  stones  are  here,  stones  that 
tell  plainly  enough  of  the  town's  early  battle  with 
the  seas,  for  here  you  will  find  a  shaft  set  up  for  a 
father  and  all  his  sons,  whose  bodies  are  lying  in 
Martinique  or  Barbadoes  or  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean.  Go  up,  and  look  abroad  over  New  London. 
Right  here  once  stood  Benedict  Arnold,  directing 
his  soldiers  to  the  sacking  of  the  town  and  the 
plundering  of  the  homes  of  his  old  friends.  Here 
in  truth  he  played  traitor  to  the  very  limit. 

A  few  Huguenots  came  to  New  London  at  the 
time  when  they  were  driven  out  of  France,  and 
made  a  mark  in  the  town,  lor  they  built  several 
of  its  finest  old  houses,  some  of  which  still  stand. 
One  is  the  fine  Shaw-Perkins  mansion,  with  a  dis- 
tinctly French  effect,  and  another  is  what  is  called 
Huguenot  House,  an  ivy-bowered,  one-and-a-half- 
story  oblong  structure  with  hip  roof  and  end  chim- 
neys, a  beautiful  place. 

Then  there  is  another  old  house  that  is,  I  believe, 
still  in  the  same  family,  after  centuries  of  life. 
This  is  the  Hempstead  House,  built  by  Sir  Robert 
Hempstead  some  time  after  1643.  This  gentleman 
was  the  founder  of  the  village  bearing  his  name 
on  Long  Island. 

"  Let's  go  and  see  the  Old  Town  Mill,"  Sister 
-*- 270-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

proposed,  after  we  had  settled  down  at  the  com- 
fortable Crocker  House. 

The  Old  Town  Mill  used  to  be  a  favourite  walk, 
and  an  object  of  great  interest.  It  stands  on  a  part 
of  the  old  Governor  Winthrop  estate,  where  Jor- 
dan Brook  comes  rushing  and  shouting  to  tumble 
over  the  mill  wheel  and  into  the  Mill  Cove.  It 
was  built  as  far  ago  as  1712  by  a  Richard  Man- 
waring,  and  ground  wheat  for  over  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years.  But  now  it  rests  in  dreamy  idleness, 
with  the  water  murmuring  past  it,  the  trees  crowd- 
ing it  close,  flowers  shining  in  the  grass  that  grows 
so  thickly. 

"  It  is  just  as  beautiful  and  just  as  romantic  as  I 
remembered  it,"  I  said,  somewhat  surprised.  For 
you  can't  always  trust  these  old  places.  They  have 
a  way  of  shrinking  from  the  fair  picture  we  carry 
along  with  us,  losing  out  in  one  fashion  or  another, 
and  leaving  you  feeling  rather  flat  at  having  re- 
membered them  at  all.  But  the  Old  Mill  was 
safely  and  soundly  perfect.  It  has  been  carefully 
tended  by  the  present  owner,  put  into  repair,  swept 
and  garnished,  machinery  and  all,  and  not  one  whit 
spoiled.  There  are  many  new  mills  in  New  Lon- 
don to-day,  turning  out  all  sorts  of  merchandise. 
But  one  is  willing  to  bet  that  they  will  be  wrecked 
and  superseded  when  interested  folk  of  ages  to 
come  are  still  visiting  the  Old  Mill,  studying  its 
-*•  271  -*-. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

stout  machinery,  admiring  its  harmonious  propor- 
tions, and  wishing,  it  may  be,  that  it  were  still  pos- 
sible to  get  such  flour  as  once  was  ground  here. 

In  the  days  when  the  mill  was  new  New  London 
was  really  a  seaport  and  she  was  much  more  than 
merely  a  fishing  town.  Her  ships  were  traders  and 
far  voyagers,  and  though  she  came  late  to  the  whal- 
ing business,  not  till  1819,  for  some  unfathomed 
reason,  she  made  up  for  being  slow  once  she  got 
to  work.  What  is  more,  she  still  goea  whaling  and 
sealing,  though  with  diminished  splendour.  Her 
harbour  is  the  best  on  the  coast,  there  being  no  rea- 
son at  all  for  the  town's  standing  where  it  does 
unless  it  turned  to  the  sea  for  its  work.  Mare 
Liberum  is  the  legend  inscribed  on  the  city's  seal, 
and  though  manufactures  are  to-day  the  real  indus- 
try of  New  London  it  has  by  no  means  given  up 
its  ocean  life. 

It  was  in  1646  that  New  London  was  founded, 
by  John  Winthrop.  For  six  years  the  settlement 
retained  its  Indian  name  of  Nameaug,  while  the 
river  was  known  as  the  Monhegin.  But  the  home- 
sick settlers  wanted  to  create  at  least  an  illusion  of 
home,  so  they  petitioned  the  Connecticut  General 
Court  to  allow  them  to  name  the  place  after  the 
city  in  the  old  country  from  which  many  of  them 
had  come,  and  to  make  the  stream  conform  to 
the  new  name. 

-(-272-*- 


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Btev. 


iu  s*%f  ii  •  te 

*•';*     mi 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

There  was  no  manner  of  use  trying  to  raise  any- 
thing in  the  harsh  and  sterile  soil,  so  the  early 
fathers  turned  at  once  to  the  sea,  building  big  and 
little  boats,  with  which  they  began  immediately 
to  trade,  taking  the  skins  and  furs  the  Indians 
brought  them  to  the  towns  up  and  down  the  coast 
from  Maine  to  the  Virginias,  and  bringing  back 
household  goods,  stuffs,  ammunition,  as  well  as 
money. 

It  was  the  Coits,  father  and  sons,  who  started  the 
shipbuilding  industry  in  New  London.  At  the 
close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  father  having 
died,  the  sons  decided  to  tackle  a  bigger  job  than 
any  yet  attempted,  and  built  three  fine  big  barks. 
One  of  these,  captained  by  Samuel  Chester,  loaded 
up  with  cured  pork  and  beef  and  several  strong 
little  horses,  with  other  odds  and  ends,  sailing  away 
without  making  much  talk  on  the  matter  to  Bar- 
badoes. 

Among  harmless  articles  like  sugar  and  molasses, 
the  doughty  captain  also  shipped,  for  the  return 
journey,  a  cask  of  rum,  fancying  that  his  neigh- 
bours would  take  kindly  to  the  new  drink.  But 
somehow  the  magistrates  of  the  state  had  got  wind 
of  the  trip  to  the  West  Indies,  and  had  heard  that 
rum  was  to  be  found  there.  They  also  knew  that 
other  colonies  had  had  cause  to  regret  the  impor- 
tation of  the  heady  fluid. 

-H- 273-1- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

"  You  can't  land  any  of  that  stuff  here,"  was  their 
decision. 

So  the  cask  was  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the 
authorities,  after  which  all  traces  seem  to  be  lost. 
But  it  was  not  long  before  Connecticut  reversed 
the  magisterial  degree,  rum  becoming  one  of  the 
greatest  assets  of  the  swiftly  growing  New  Lon- 
don-West Indian  trade. 

There  wasn't  a  busier  town  in  all  New  England 
from  early  in  1700  on  to  the  Revolution.  Another 
big  shipyard  was  built  opposite  the  first,  over  in 
Groton,  and  both  turned  out  stout  barks  and  ships 
as  fast  as  ever  they  could.  The  merchants  on  the 
water  front  bought  these  up  and  sent  them  on  their 
way.  For  miles  back  the  country  brought  all  it 
had  to  trade  to  New  London's  docks,  and  took 
away  what  came  to  them  from  the  sea  and  the 
tropic  isles.  The  long  village  street  was  the  scene 
of  a  tremendous  energy  in  those  days.  Great  wains 
drawn  by  four  and  six  horses  or  as  many  oxen 
toiled  in  and  out  of  town,  the  shouts  of  the  drivers, 
the  cracks  of  the  long  whiplashes,  the  creakings 
of  the  wheels,  all  adding  to  the  noise  and  excite- 
ment. What  was  more,  droves  of  cattle,  hogs,  and 
horses  also  came  down  to  the  wharves  along  the 
same  road,  concentering  from  towns  and  villages 
inland  over  a  wide  area.  Wild  men  some  of  these 
drivers  and  drovers,  with  a  tavern  of  their  own 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

down  on  the  water  front  where  they  put  in  glorious 
hours  while  the  wagons  were  unloading  and  load- 
ing once  more,  scattering  through  the  town  in 
gangs  whose  horseplay  affrighted  the  sober  citi- 
zens, but  did  little  real  harm. 

Then  came  the  Revolution.  New  London  turned 
practically  all  her  ships  into  privateers,  and  fought 
bravely  through  the  whole  war.  At  its  close  her 
trading  days  were  over,  not  to  return.  The  huge 
warehouses  stood  empty,  ships  rotted  at  the  wharf- 
side,  the  shipyards  lay  unused  and  silent. 

The  story  of  the  ups  and  downs  of  American 
shipping  is  surely  one  of  the  strangest  in  the  world! 

Then  came  the  whaling  years,  beginning  in  1819. 
Two  men  started  this  industry,  Thomas  N.  Will- 
iams and  Daniel  Deslon  sending  out  three  ships. 
The  first  voyage  was  mildly  successful,  but  on  her 
second,  having  been  at  sea  over  a  year,  the  "  Mary  " 
came  into  port  with  2,000  barrels  of  oil  on  board. 
With  the  high  prices  then  obtained,  this  was  a 
tremendous  haul,  and  instantly  all  New  London 
rushed  to  the  business  of  catching  whales.  Once 
again  the  shipyards  worked  building  vessels  from 
morning  till  night.  The  ships  sailed  in  and  out, 
the  mariners  congregated  in  the  lower  town,  the 
merchants  opened  once  more  the  huge  warehouses, 
to  be  filled  now  with  whalebone  in  bales,  with  bar- 
rels of  oil,  with  the  pure  white  spermaceti.  Once 
'-*•  275  •*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

again  the  country  roundabout  poured  its  provisions 
into  the  port,  and  all  went  humming. 

This  whaling  business  was  far  healthier  than  the 
earlier  trade,  since  it  was  carried  on  largely  on  a 
co-operative  basis,  the  whole  town  benefiting  in- 
stead of  a  few  traders.  New  London  soared  to 
the  top  of  comfortable  affluence. 

Practically  every  man  either  went  to  sea,  to  the 
shipbuilding  work,  or  to  the  busy  wharves.  The 
eyes  of  the  town  turned  seaward.  No  storm  swept 
in  from  the  east  or  tore  out  from  land,  but  faces 
turned  white  and  anxious  women  climbed  the  hill 
to  stare  out  for  possible  sails.  Every  returning  ship 
was  greeted  with  frantic  scenes  of  joy.  As  soon  as 
her  bow  rounded  the  headlands  of  Fisher's  Island 
her  signal  flags  told  who  she  was,  and  the  town 
streamed  down  to  her  wharf.  Sometimes  a  heavy 
tale  was  brought  for  the  hearing,  for  the  long  hard 
voyages,  enduring  for  years,  had  much  of  tragedy 
and  loss.  But  at  least  some  had  come  safe  to  home 
and  wife,  and  their  share  of  the  gold-bringing  oil 
in  the  hold. 

But  the  whaling  days  followed  the  West  India 
trade,  and  New  London  fell  asleep  again.  She 
has  never  waked  up  to  the  old-time  picturesque 
life  of  the  harbour  after  that  last  collapse,  though 
she  still  counts  herself  a  seaport  town.  But  she 
is  a  prosperous,  hardworking,  home-keeping  city 
-^-276-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

to-day,  with  fine  public  buildings  and  attractive 
streets,  busy  factories,  growing  environs.  As  a 
summer  resort  she  is  getting  more  popular  with 
every  season,  and  more  and  more  do  those  who 
come  to  spend  a  few  weeks  or  months  decide  to  re- 
main for  keeps.  As  a  place  to  build  a  home  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  New  London  could  be  beaten. 

A  telephone  call  from  an  old  friend  bid  us  to 
the  Pequot  Casino,  on  Pequot  Avenue,  a  fashion- 
able and  delightful  place,  right  on  the  water,  with 
a  long  bridge  connecting  with  an  island.  The 
Casino  is  wide-spreading,  verandas  continuing  the 
tale  begun  by  the  house.  Yachts  almost  climb  up 
on  this  veranda,  and  every  one  who  comes  in  and 
goes  out  has  a  sea  tang  to  him  or  her.  Of  course 
there  are  all  the  other  things  to  do  that  are  done 
at  Casinos,  but  the  sea  call  is  the  strongest.  New 
London,  in  her  play,  is  entirely  faithful  to  her 
old  history  of  work. 

No  one  can  go  to  New  London  without  also  see- 
ing Groton,  the  town  across  the  river  where  oc- 
curred the  massacre  of  Fort  Griswold  on  the  occa- 
sion of  Benedict  Arnold's  attack.  Here  the  garri- 
son of  the  fort  was  basely  slaughtered  after  its  sur- 
render, the  brave  commander,  Colonel  William 
Ledyard,  who  had  resisted  against  tremendous 
odds,  dying  as  the  result  of  the  treachery  of  a  man 
who  had  once  called  him  friend. 
-+•277-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

We  took  the  little  ferry  on  a  clear  morning,  for 
we  meant  once  again  to  climb  the  long  spiral  of 
the  stairway  that  leads  you  up  the  135  feet  to  the 
top  of  the  monument  raised  to  the  memory  of  this 
massacre  of  brave  men.  The  stone  obelisk  is  as 
simple  as  can  be  wished,  built  of  the  granite  under- 
foot, in  whose  defence  the  little  band  had  given  up 
their  lives. 

Up  we  clumped,  round  and  round  with  steadfast 
tread.  Going  up  one  of  those  twisty  flights  into 
dizzy  distances  always  has  a  hypnotising  effect,  I 
find.  You  get  awfully  tired,  of  course,  but  you 
feel,  at  the  same  time,  as  though  you  were  capable 
of  keeping  on  at  it  forever.  Round  and  round 
and  up  and  up. 

"  I  wonder  who  invented  stairs,"  mused  Sister, 
"  and  where  the  first  ones  were  built?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  this  I  do  know,  that  they 
have  been  found  in  Egypt's  oldest  relics  of  build- 
ings," I  answered,  sitting  down  the  better  to  im- 
press Sister,  who  also  sat  down  the  better  to  hear. 
"  And  they  say  that  the  best  types  of  circular  stair- 
ways were  made  in  the  spacious  times 

"  Of  great  Elizabeth,"  interrupted  Sister.  "  So, 
all  these  countless  centuries  people  have  been  walk- 
ing upstairs,  just  as  we  are  doing  now."  And  she 
resumed  the  work  of  getting  to  the  top. 

The  view  is  worth  it,  after  you  have  got  up,  if 
•-*•  278  ^ 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

not  while  you  are  doing  so.  All  New  London  lies 
before  you,  with  the  sweep  of  the  broad,  slumber- 
ing river,  the  wide  arch  of  the  bay,  the  little  coves, 
Fisher's  Island,  humped  and  green,  the  various 
lighthouses,  the  pale  blue  Sound  beyond.  Close 
below  lies  Fort  Griswold,  only  a  relic  now,  with 
ancient  cannon  guarding  ancient  ramparts  against 
ghosts.  The  Navy  Yard,  full  of  modern  ships,  lies 
up  the  river  a  bit,  so  do  the  boathouses  of  several 
clubs  and  colleges,  Harvard's  red  building  con- 
spicuous among  them.  The  harbour  front,  with 
the  many  wharves  and  the  closely  crowded  tall 
warehouses  built  long  ago  and  just  as  fit  and  stout 
to-day  as  when  their  timbers  were  hewn  and  knit, 
looks  extremely  imposing. 

Inland  the  prospect  spreads  on  and  on  over  vil- 
lages and  farmlands  and  rolling  hills.  Connecticut 
has  a  soft  and  welcoming  aspect,  a  home  look. 

When  again  we  stood  on  grass  at  the  foot  of  the 
tower  we  felt  more  as  though  we  had  been  travel- 
ling in  an  aeroplane  than  simply  looking  off  the  top 
of  the  stone  obelisk  before  us.  The  rise  on  which 
it  stands  giving  it  a  far  greater  sweep  of  horizon 
than  seems  possible  from  its  base. 

The  Monument  House  near  by  is  a  place  that 
must  be  looked  into,  since  it  is  full  of  Revolution- 
ary salvage  of  many  kinds.  Weapons,  shot,  uni- 
forms, old  letters,  personal  belongings  of  Colonel 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Ledyard,  everything  arranged  most  happily. 
There  is,  however,  no  shred  of  Mother  Bailey's 
flannel  petticoat,  and  this  for  the  very  excellent 
reason  that  its  title  to  fame  consists  in  the  fact  that 
it  was  entirely  sacrificed.  This  is  the  story. 

When  Admiral  Decatur  was  locked  up  in  New 
London  harbour  there  was  reason  to  fear  an  attack 
by  land.  Soldiers  and  marines  undertook  to  guard 
the  approaches,  but  ammunition  was  somewhat 
low.  They  set  to  work  to  make  more  out  of  what- 
ever could  be  got  for  the  purpose.  A  shortage  of 
wads  was  one  serious  item.  Patriotic  persons 
brought  rags  and  scraps  of  woollen  goods,  but 
Mother  Bailey  did  better.  For  when  it  came  to 
her  ears  that  even  with  all  that  was  brought  to  help 
out  the  material  was  still  insufficient,  she  gave  all 
her  blankets  to  the  cause,  and,  these  even  not  being 
sufficient,  she  surrendered  her  flannel  petticoat. 

"  How  useless  women  would  be  nowadays  com- 
pared with  the  heroic  past,"  I  remarked  to  Sister, 
as  we  listened  to  the  story  of  Mother  Bailey. 
"  What  one  among  us  all  owns  such  a  thing  as  a 
flannel  petticoat  to-day?  " 

"  Yes,  but  to-day  they  don't  use  flannel  petticoats 
to  make  cartridges,"  Sister  retorted. 

It  all  works  out,  after  all. 

That  evening  we  went  sailing  in  the  harbour, 
and  as  we  came  idling  homeward  on  the  failing 
-+280-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

wind  we  were  told  an  old  legend,  the  legend  of  The 
Hunt  for  Treasure,  which  is  part  of  New  London's 
story. 

It  seems  that  back  at  least  a  score  of  years  be- 
fore the  Revolution,  when  New  London  was  at  the 
height  of  her  trading  epoch,  a  Spanish  galleon 
loaded  with  a  rich  treasure  put  into  the  harbour, 
having  encountered  heavy  weather.  She  was  some- 
what the  worse  for  wear,  and  her  crew,  fearing 
her  to  be  sinking,  rushed  her  up  on  land,  to  be 
sure  of  saving  her  cargo,  which  was  then  taken  off 
and  housed  for  safe-keeping  in  charge  of  a  certain 
Joseph  Hill. 

Throughout  the  winter  the  ship's  company  re- 
mained in  the  town,  but  when  April  came  the 
supercargo  bought  a  new  ship,  and  was  ready  to 
load  his  riches  once  again  and  set  sail  for  Cadiz. 
But  the  cargo  was  not  to  be  found.  No  one  knew 
anything  of  it.  The  boxes  of  doubloons,  for  it  was 
whispered  that  the  ship  had  been  piled  with  Span- 
ish-American gold,  the  ingots  and  bars  of  precious 
metal,  all  had  disappeared. 

Desperately  as  months  went  by  the  owner  tried 
to  recover  that  fortune.  The  galleon  had  long  since 
gone  to  pieces  on  the  shore,  and  now  his  treasure 
had  grown  wings  and  flown.  He  appealed  to  the 
Governor,  but  the  Governor  looked  blank.  He 
cried  out  that  he  had  been  robbed,  accusing  Hill, 
-*-  281  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

but  this  gentleman  disclaimed  any  knowledge  of 
silver  or  gold  or  any  other  sort  of  treasure. 

Yet  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  whispered 
that  there  had  been  shadowy  figures  digging  at 
night  where  the  long  wharf  touched  the  land. 
What  they  were  doing  could  not  be  ascertained. 
But  it  was  strange;  strange  too  that  the  Spaniard 
was  so  precise  in  his  accusations. 

Gradually  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  treach- 
erously used  grew  high  in  the  little  town.  Was 
this  a  way  to  treat  a  stranger,  driven  through  stress 
of  weather  on  their  shores? 

Such  wrath  was  engendered  that  the  Governor 
lost  the  next  election,  Hill  was  shunned,  and  any 
who  might  have  a  knowledge  of  the  Spaniard's 
wealth  were  watched.  Should  so  much  as  one 
doubloon  be  offered  for  exchange,  people  would 
know  what  to  do. 

The  Spaniard  finally  sailed  home  with  empty 
hull  and  a  full  heart.  But,  if  any  one  knew  where 
that  gold  of  his  lay  hid,  they  dared  not  touch  it  till 
the  fury  had  abated. 

Few  had  the  secret,  if  secret  there  was,  and  in 
one  way  or  another  death  took  these  one  by  one. 
The  war  came,  to  distract  men  from  all  other 
thoughts.  The  treasure  was  forgotten. 

Many  years  later  an  old  witch  living  in  Ver- 
mont told  two  of  her  clients,  stout  young  men  who 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

feared  neither  God  nor  the  Devil,  just  where  this 
buried  treasure  lay.  It  would  make  all  three  rich 
beyond  any  dreaming.  They  were  to  dig  for  it  ac- 
cording to  directions,  at  the  stroke  of  midnight  on 
All  Hallowe'en. 

Here  was  a  chance  indeed!  So  on  the  proper 
night  and  at  the  perfect  hour,  two  sturdy  men  with 
pickaxe  and  shovel  and  bucket,  for  the  water  as 
well  as  the  sand  lay  over  the  gold,  came  down  to 
dig. 

To  be  sure,  before  long  the  iron  struck  wood. 
Feverishly  the  two  flung  themselves  at  the  work. 
But  fast  as  they  dug,  the  cask  sunk  faster.  All 
night  they  worked,  groaning  with  fatigue  and 
cupidity.  But  at  dawn  they  were  no  nearer  suc- 
cess than  when  they  began.  And,  as  the  sun  rose, 
sand  and  water  rushed  into  the  gaping  hole  where 
they  had  struggled  all  night,  so  that  it  was  only 
by  a  miracle  that  both  were  not  swallowed 
up. 

Since  which  time  no  one  has  attempted  to  re- 
trieve that  Spaniard's  lost  wealth. 

These  old  stories,  and  the  old  buildings  and  sea- 
edge  of  New  London  seem  to  belong  together  and 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  town.  Like  New  Bed- 
ford it  is  more  modern  than  ancient,  and  yet  these 
two  cities  are  more  closely  identified  with  the  past 
era  of  trading  and  whaling  and  privateering  and 
-+  283  -H 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

generally  keeping  things  lively  on  the  ocean  than 
almost  any  other  part  of  New  '  England.  But 
where,  in  Portsmouth,  Gloucester,  Provincetown, 
the  past  broods  tenderly  about  the  present,  quite  as 
real,  quite  as  visible,  here  it  is  more  like  a  story 
told  by  a  fireside  to  pass  the  time;  half  fanciful, 
half  true,  but  completely  gone.  The  antiquarian 
can  hunt  up  much  of  the  deepest  interest  in  the 
Historic  Museum  in  town,  or  over  at  Groton.  He 
can  find  relics  on  Burial  Hill  and  in  out  of  the  way 
corners,  can  even  find  an  old  man  here  or  there 
who  has  played  his  share  in  the  vanished  past.  But 
so  far  as  the  casual  visitor  goes  New  London  is 
simply  a  charming  place  for  the  summer,  with  its 
fine  beaches  and  good  clubs,  its  handsome  public 
library  and  other  buildings,  its  well-kept  streets 
and  excellent  houses. 

Yet,  for  all  its  modern  trimness  and  efficiency, 
there  is  a  veil  of  quaintness  and  the  fashion  of  an 
older  day  spread  over  the  town,  something  that 
flees  and  haunts  you,  and  that  gives  New  London 
a  fascination  that  a  really  new  town  can  never  have. 
It  is  ripe.  It  has  had  many  experiences,  it  has 
suffered,  much  that  it  loved  has  died.  It  makes 
you  feel  this. 

"  Is  it  because  we  used  to  visit  here  when  we 
were  children  that  we  love  the  town?"  Sister 
wondered. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  Partly  that,  perhaps,  and  partly — I  don't  know 
— but  it  seems  to  mean  so  much." 

For  the  old  seaport,  in  its  various  stages  of  loss 
and  gain,  adventure  and  sleep,  in  its  sacrifices  and 
its  glories,  is  so  thoroughly  American,  perhaps 
most  so  in  the  way  it  has  met  modern  conditions 
and  set  itself  to  a  new  pattern. 


285 


New  Haven 


CHAPTER  XII 

New  Haven 

S  you  set  foot  on  the  platform  of  the  sta- 
tion at  New  Haven  the  inhabitants  do 
not  rush  up  to  you  with  glad  proud  cries 
telling  you  that  it  is  the  largest  city  in 
the  State,  as  they  would  if  the  city  were  west  of 
the  Rockies  instead  of  considerably  east  of  the 
Hudson.  That  is  not  the  New  Haven  way. 

Yet,  as  you  traverse  the  New  Haven  streets,  so 
broad,  so  serene,  so  shaded  with  overarching  elms, 
as  you  linger  on  the  Green  or  stroll  through  the 
college  campus,  as  you  pause  in  admiration  before 
noble  architecture  or  sit  at  ease  in  charming  parks, 
you  gather  that  the  city  is  proud  of  itself,  that  it 
is  fully  conscious  of  both  its  size  and  its  impor- 
tance, not  to  speak  of  its  beauty,  and  that  its  lack 
of  self-advertising  flows  from  a  profound  convic- 
tion that  it  is  totally  unnecessary. 

"  Here  I  am.  And  mighty  fortunate  you  are  in 
that  fact,"  is  the  thought  it  conveys.  A  thought 
to  which  even  the  most  casual  visitor  within  its 
limits  must  heartily  subscribe. 

Sister  and  I  had  begun  our  journey  along  the 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

New  England  coast  in  the  Forest  City;  we  were 
to  end  it  in  the  City  of  Elms,  for  that  is  New 
Haven's  pet  name.  The  Maine  town  has  lost  many 
of  the  trees  that  gave  it  its  name,  but  New  Haven 
has  almost  as  good  a  reason  to-day  as  yesterday  for 
the  description.  So  many  and  such  magnificent 
trees  we  had  found  nowhere  else. 

We  mentioned  them  with  words  of  praise  to  a 
seller  of  postcards  in  a  drug  store  a  little  distance 
from  the  Green. 

"  You  ought  to  see  these  streets  after  a  fall  of 
fresh  snow  or  an  ice  storm,"  he  answered.  "  I 
guess  there  isn't  such  a  sight  anywhere  else  in 
America."  It  was  the  only  superlative  we  heard 
during  our  stay. 

"  I  wonder  if  we  could  dash  out  here  next  time 
there's  a  snowstorm,"  I  interrogated  Sister,  as  we 
strolled  away  under  the  leafy  canopy.  And  she 
replied  that  she  was  game. 

Everything  in  New  Haven  began  at  the  Green, 
and  naturally  we  began  there  too.  The  whole  city 
centres  there,  and  radiates  from  it  in  beautiful 
streets,  stopping  every  five  or  ten  minutes  to  make  a 
tree-encircled  square,  a  little  or  big  park,  a  flower- 
packed  garden.  Spread  out  on  the  level  plain  that 
slopes  slightly  upward  from  the  shores  of  the  bay 
to  the  ridge  of  hills  behind,  New  Haven  has  plenty 
of  room,  and  takes  it.  Practically  every  house  has 
-*-  £90  -*-. 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

grounds  about  it,  not  a  mere  yard,  but  lawns  and 
shrubbery  and  trees,  tennis  grounds,  shady  places 
sweet  with  bloom. 

But  to  get  back  to  the  Green,  on  which  our  hotel 
faced.  A  reason,  if  there  were  no  other,  to  put 
up  there.  But  the  Taft  Hotel  has  plenty  of  good 
reasons  for  getting  you  to  stay  there,  and  keeping 
you  after  you  get  there.  It  stands  on  the  site  of 
the  old  New  Haven  House,  a  hostelry  of  many 
years  and  much  history,  closely  identified  with 
Yale,  but  increasingly  old-fashioned  and  incon- 
venient. The  Taft  is  everything  of  the  contrary. 

A  star-like  pattern  of  paths  leads  away  in  every 
direction  on  the  surface  of  the  green  from  the 
liberty  pole  in  the  centre  of  the  upper  portion,  the 
white  lines  in  the  green  grass  very  attractive.  We 
walked  over  to  the  three  churches  first,  all  of  them 
built  in  1814.  They  stretch  across  the  centre  of 
the  green,  along  Temple  Street,  the  North,  or 
United,  as  it  is  called  now,  the  Centre,  and  Trinity, 
one  of  if  not  the  oldest  Episcopal  society  in  Con- 
necticut. This  church  is  built  of  a  dark  brown- 
stone  with  a  square  tower  ending  in  corner  finials. 
The  other  two  are  true  New  England  architecture, 
Centre,  with  its  severe  simplicity,  its  blunt  topped 
spire  and  the  fine  pilasters  that  adorn  its  fagade 
being  possibly  the  handsomer  of  the  two. 

Undoubtedly  it  is  the  more  interesting.  It  stands 
.-*-  291  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

on  the  site  of  the  first  meeting  house,  as  the  follow- 
ing inscription  tells  us: 

A.D.  1638,  A  Company 
of  English  Christians  led 
by  John  Davenport  and 
Theophilus  Eaton  were 
the  Founders  of  this  city. 
Here  Their  Earliest 
House  of  Worship  was 
Built  A.D.  1639. 

Underneath  the  church,  the  crypt  contains  the 
remains  and  tombstones  of  the  early  Puritan 
fathers  and  their  families,  while  in  the  rear  is 
the  monument  to  John  Dixwell,  one  of  the  regicides 
who  stirred  New  Haven  to  its  depths  in  1661. 
The  Colonel,  to  be  sure,  arrived  after  the  excite- 
ment was  over  by  a  few  years,  and  incognito,  an- 
nouncing himself  to  be  a  Mr.  James  Davids,  re- 
tired merchant.  He  was  wealthy,  and  he  settled 
down  for  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  town,  and  it  was 
not  till  some  time  after  his  death  that  the  truth 
came  out.  He  was  one  of  those  who  had  a  share 
in  condemning  Charles  I.  to  the  scaffold,  and  who 
had  to  flee  England  when  Charles  II.  came  to  the 
throne.  The  monument  was  raised  much  later  by 
his  descendants. 

But  there  is  a  more  interesting  reminder  of  the 
link  between  New  Haven  and  that  tragedy  of  the 
-*•  292-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

English  Court.  It  is  some  way  from  the  Green, 
but  Sister  and  I  walked  out  to  it — The  Judges' 
Cave,  on  West  Rock.  It  is  more  of  a  pile  of  huge 
boulders  that  make  a  chamber  large  enough  to  en- 
ter than  a  cave,  but  it  is  all  the  more  striking  in 
appearance.  Here  the  two  regicides,  Major-Gen- 
erals Edward  Whalley  and  his  son-in-law  William 
Goffe,  spent  many  weary  weeks.  The  two  had  been 
high  in  Cromwell's  service  and  confidence;  there 
had  even  been  some  talk  of  making  Goffe  the  great 
Commoner's  successor.  But  things  befel  other- 
wise; the  two  gentlemen  were  obliged  to  flee  for 
their  lives,  and  sailed  for  Boston,  where  at  first 
they  lived  openly,  but  finally  Charles  sent  over  an 
order  for  their  arrest,  and  Governor  Endicott  set 
about  capturing  them. 

The  Reverend  John  Davenport,  one  of  the 
founders  of  New  Haven,  had  been  a  friend  of 
Cromwell's,  so  that  it  was  to  him  the  fugitives 
turned  for  help.  They  reached  New  Haven  on 
horseback  on  March  7,  1661,  and  for  three  weeks 
lay  hidden  in  the  house  of  Davenport  or  of  a  friend 
of  his,  William  Jones,  whose  father  had  been  exe- 
cuted in  England  for  the  same  crime. 

Officers  armed  with  the  royal  warrant  came 

from  Boston,  upon  which  there  followed  a  game 

of  hide-and-seek  in  which  the  regicides,  assisted 

by  many  New  Haven  folk,  wore  out  the  patience 

•4- 2031- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

of  the  officers,  who  at  last  went  home.  But  before 
they  went  they  posted  a  large  reward.  That  set 
thrifty  souls  to  the  work  of  hunting  themselves, 
and  for  two  years  the  two  "  wanted  "  men  dodged 
about  from  one  friend  to  another,  hid  in  a  ruined 
mill  outside  the  city,  and  made  their  home  in  the 
cave  we  sat  before,  as  well  as  in  another  lower 
down  the  side  of  West  Rock.  Finally  the  two  went 
to  Hadley,  and  are  lost  to  the  sight  of  history,  as 
they  were  to  that  of  those  who  looked  for  them  so 
earnestly  and  ferociously. 

Our  old  friend  Whitefield,  whose  tomb  we  had 
seen  in  Newburyport,  had  his  day  on  the  Green, 
where  he  preached,  in  the  open  air,  to  a  vast  crowd 
of  people  on  one  of  his  later  visits  to  America. 

In  the  old  days  when  New  Haven  was  a  separate 
Colony  and  later  when  she  shared  the  honours  of 
being  the  capital  city  with  Hartford,  she  had  a 
State  House,  indeed,  more  than  one,  for  it  got  to 
be  a  habit  with  her  to  pull  down  the  old  and  build 
the  new  every  few  years.  They  all  stood  on  various 
sites  about  the  Green,  the  first  being  erected  in 
1717,  and  the  last  pulled  down  in  1889. 

The  pulling  down  of  this  final  State  House, 
built,  it  is  said,  on  the  general  plan  of  a  Doric 
temple,  was  the  occasion  of  a  good  deal  of  inter- 
est. A  newspaper  in  Boston  got  much  worked  up 
on  the  subject,  and  printed  words  to  the  effect  that 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

it  would  be  a  shameful  thing  to  destroy  this 
"  priceless  memento  of  a  glorious  past,  a  perpetual 
reminder  that  New  Haven  was  originally  an  inde- 
pendent colony  and  for  nearly  two  and  a  half  cen- 
turies a  sharer  of  the  capital  honours.  Tens  of 
thousands  of  men  and  women  throughout  the 
land,"  continued  this  moving  recital,  "  who  are 
now  in  middle  or  advanced  age,  remember,  with 
all  the  pleasure  that  attaches  to  youthful  impres- 
sions, the  picture  of  the  Capitol  Building  at  New 
Haven,  which  was  in  so  many  school  books  forty 
or  fifty  years  ago.  To  tear  down  that  building 
would  be  to  obliterate  a  chief  milestone  on  the  path 
of  time." 

To  this  a  New  Haven  paper  replied  with  the  fol- 
lowing stern  rebuke: 

"  It  will  be  news  to  most  New  Haveners  that 
the  State  House  is  '  a  priceless  memento  of  a  glori- 
ous past.'  It  is  not.  It  is  a  memento  of  New 
Haven's  folly  in  allowing  Hartford  to  gobble  the 
capital  .  .  .  neither  is  it  a  *  chief  milestone  on 
the  path  of  time.'  Rather,  it  is  an  encumbrance, 
a  public  nuisance,  a  bone  of  contention,  an  eyesore, 
a  laughing  stock,  a  hideous  pile  of  bricks  and  mor- 
tar, a  blot  on  the  fair  surface  of  the  Green.  The 
Boston  paper  doesn't  know  what  it's  talking 
about." 

So  there!  Anyway,  it  is  pretty  certain  that,  to- 
-f-  295  -*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

'day,  the  town  is  perfectly  willing  to  have  Hartford 
bear  the  burdens  and  the  honour  of  being  the  capi- 
tal. New  Haven  has  quite  enough  to  attend  to 
without  that. 

The  old  town  pump  once  stood  in  the  corner 
of  the  Green  near  the  college,  and  there  was  also 
a  whipping  post,  last  used  in  1831,  but  who  was 
whipped  then  and  why  is  no  longer  remembered. 
And  here  the  County  Fair  used  to  be  held.  One 
of  the  old  chroniclers  gives  a  picture  of  this  event 
that  Sister  discovered  and  showed  me  with  de- 
light. 

"  There  have  been  years  when,  on  the  Green, 
large  wagons  from  Bethany  and  the  towns  near 
New  Haven  made  a  very  attractive  appearance 
trimmed  with  evergreens  and  adorned  inside  and 
outside  with  specimens  of  golden  corn,  big 
squashes,  and  strings  of  red  peppers  and  other 
vegetables,  the  most  charming  exhibit  of  all  being 
the  healthy  and  lively  daughters  of  the  people,  who 
rode  in  the  wagons  wearing  holiday  attire.  And 
there  were  few  finer  sights  of  a  big  fair  than  the 
long  line  of  famous  red  cattle  from  the  Wood- 
bridge  hills,  the  sweet  breath  of  morning  in  pearly 
shimmer  on  their  broad,  cool  noses.  What  large, 
intelligent,  and  lustrous  eyes  had  those  cattle  of  the 
Connecticut  hillsides." 

On  this  same  Green  slept  the  invading  British 
-*•  296-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

force  that  had  come  to  burn  the  town  on  July  5, 
1779.  They  had  landed  at  old  Lighthouse  Point, 
and  joined  with  another  attacking  force,  sweeping 
the  Americans  before  them.  The  only  thing  that 
saved  the  place  from  destruction  was  that  many 
Tories  held  property  here,  and  it  was  impossible 
not  to  destroy  the  goods  of  the  faithful  with  those 
of  the  rebel.  Four  years  later  the  Green  was  the 
scene  of  a  great  jubilation  in  thankfulness  for 
the  ending  of  the  Revolution  and  the  triumph 
of  the  Americans.  New  Haven  had  given  her 
best  to  the  cause,  both  in  men  and  treasure. 

"  What  a  pity  that  every  town  or  city  doesn^t 
have  a  fine,  convenient,  central  place  like  this  beau- 
tiful Green  where  all  historical  events  of  impor- 
tance can  take  place,"  Sister  said.  "  Here  we  sit, 
on  this  comparatively  comfortable  bench,  and 
watch  the  centuries  whirl  before  our  eyes.  And, 
where  the  Green  ends,  the  college  begins.  Shall 
we  make  for  Phelps  and  enter  the  campus?" 

"  Let's  stick  to  the  town  awhile  yet.  There's  the 
old  Grove  Street  Burial  Ground,  and  some  old 
houses  and  fine  streets,  Hillhouse  Avenue  among 
them.  Come  along,  it's  walk  and  not  sit  the  rest 
of  the  morning." 

Hillhouse  was  near,  to  the  northward,  a  short 
but  broad  and  stately  street,  with  grass-plots  on 
either  side  of  the  driveway,  great  trees,  and  at  the 
-j-  297-1- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

end  a  vista  of  columns.  This  end  used  to  be  known 
as  Sachem  Woods,  a  real  forest  not  so  many  years 
ago.  It  has  been  bought  by  the  University,  except 
one  part  that  is  laid  out  in  a  park.  Sheffield  Sci- 
entific makes  a  fine  effect  along  one  side  of  Hill- 
house  and  there  are  charming  houses.  Here  the 
sense  of  grave  spaciousness  that  makes  so  much  of 
New  Haven's  charm  is  at  its  noblest. 

"  Living  on  a  street  like  this  ought  to  do  some- 
thing for  you,"  was  my  thought,  as  we  walked 
slowly  up  and  back  again  to  Grove  Street.  "  All 
the  advantages  of  a  city  and  all  the  attractiveness 
of  an  ancestral  estate.  And  just  listen  to  the 
orioles! " 

There  must  have  been  a  nest  to  every  tree,  judg- 
ing from  the  flash  of  brilliant  wings  along  the 
green  avenues  of  the  boughs,  while  the  clear  wild 
notes  rang  sweetly  down  upon  us.  Wise  birds  to 
choose  a  home  so  lovely  and  so  secure. 

"  In  many  ways,"  said  Sister,  "  this  big  city  is 
less  like  a  city  than  the  little  ones  we  have  been 
seeing.  There  ought  to  be  a  new  and  special  name 
invented  for  it." 

We  soon  found  our  way  to  the  old  graveyard, 
where  so  many  men  of  mark  are  buried.  Yale 
Presidents,  inventors,  writers,  governors.  Here 
Timothy  Dwight  lies,  he  who  wrote  deprecating 
the  presence  of  the  dead  on  the  Green,  saying  that 
-*•  298  •+- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

death  was  too  solemn  a  thing  to  have  graves  lying 
close  to  the  life  of  the  town.  Most  of  those  who, 
in  his  time,  lay  there  are  now  with  him  in  Grove. 
Another  President  of  Yale,  her  first  titular  presi- 
dent, is  remembered  by  a  large  red  sandstone  on 
which  this  is  cut: 

"  The  Reverend  and  Learned  Mr.  Thomas  Clap, 
near  27  Years  Laborious  and  Painfull  President 
of  the  College." 

Noah  Webster,  whose  house  still  stands,  and  Eli 
Whitney,  inventor  of  the  cotton  gin  which  did  so 
much  for  America,  Theodore  Winthrop,  Jedediah 
Morse,  Admirals  and  Generals,  many  other  fa- 
mous sons  of  New  Haven  lie  here  under  their  head- 
stones, well  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  In  spite  of 
President  Dwight's  objection  to  this  close  and 
familiarising  presence  of  the  dead  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  city's  life,  there  is  a  charm,  a  tender- 
ness, a  friendliness  about  these  old  burial  grounds 
in  New  England  towns  that  the  modern  cemetery 
neither  attempts  nor  achieves. 

When  Noah  Webster  was  a  lieutenant  command- 
ing a  company  of  Yale  students  General  Washing- 
ton paid  the  town  a  visit.  The  young  man  was  ap- 
pointed as  escort,  and  "  on  the  day  and  time  of  it " 
he  noted  in  his  diary  that  the  General  gave  him  a 
compliment  for  the  manner  in  which  he  performed 
the  service. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

There  is  of  course  a  tremendous  lot  of  New 
Haven  that  is  just  homes.  Lovely  homes,  in  fine 
grounds,  street  after  street  of  them.  And  then  there 
is  the  waterside.  For  New  Haven  was  a  seaport, 
though  she  was  never  identified  with  the  sea  to 
the  extent  of  the  other  New  England  sea  cities. 
Her  most  famous  contact  with  it  was  when  the 
steamer  Fulton  sailed  into  her  harbour  from  New 
York,  in  1815.  She  has,  however,  her  own  particu- 
lar legend,  the  Phantom  Ship,  sung  by  Bryant: 

"A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven; 

And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 
That  filled  her  sails  at  farting, 
Were  heavy  'with  good  men's  prayers." 

It  was  in  1647  that  a  ship,  with  Lamberton, 
Master,  set  sail  in  December  for  England,  with  a 
large  company  on  board,  among  whom  were  many 
distinguished  citizens  of  New  Haven.  Lamberton 
did  not  like  his  new  command,  for  new  she  was. 
He  remarked  of  her  that  she  was  "  walty,"  and  that 
he  did  not  doubt  but  that  she  would  end  by  being 
the  grave  of  some  ship's  company.  The  friends  of 
the  departing  company  followed  them  to  the  end 
of  the  wharf  and  watched  them  draw  away,  while 
the  pastor,  no  other  than  the  Reverend  John 
Davenport,  bade  them  godspeed  with  these  cheer- 
ful words:  "  Lord,  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  to  bury 
-*-  300-*- 


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OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

these  our  friends  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  take 
them ;  they  are  thine." 

And  that,  so  far  as  any  word  came,  was  the  last 
heard  of  the  ship  and  all  her  company.  But  one 
June  evening  some  watchers  on  the  shore  descried 
a  ship  full  sail  coming  into  port,  which  was  the 
more  remarkable  as  a  stiff  offshore  breeze  was 
blowing.  But  in  she  swept,  the  sunset  on  her  tow- 
ering canvas.  The  town  gathered,  awed  and  dis- 
turbed. On  came  the  ship,  until  she  was  recog- 
nised for  the  one  which  had  sailed  away  in  the  dead 
of  the  winter,  on  until  friend  descried  the  face  of 
friend  on  her  deck.  Then,  suddenly,  her  topmasts 
went  by  the  board,  the  rest  of  her  rigging  fol- 
lowed, the  hull  reeled,  quivered,  sank.  A  slight 
mist  hung  over  the  sea  for  a  brief  space,  cleared, 
and  nothing  of  the  vision  remained. 

We  walked  along  Water  Street  to  Waterside 
Park,  lying  between  the  docks  and  reaching  right 
out  into  the  bay,  with  trees,  or  it  wouldn't  belong 
to  New  Haven,  planted  thickly.  There  were 
plenty  of  townsfolk  enjoying  the  fresh  wind  and 
the  fresher  prospect.  Boats  were  busily  going  in 
and  out,  launches  chugging.  White  sails  were 
visible  clear  down  the  bay.  Along  further,  where 
Mill  River  joins  the  bay,  is  the  Yale  Boathouse. 
The  waterfront  is  used  by  the  citizens  in  this  wise 
and  happy  town,  not  given  up,  as  in  so  many  of 
.-+•  301  •*-. 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

our  Americans  cities,  to  dirty  tracks  and  freight 
yards. 

For  all  its  appreciation  of  beauty,  space,  and 
nature  New  Haven  is  no  sleepy  college  town  with 
nothing  to  keep  it  occupied  from  Commencement 
to  the  Fall  opening  of  the  big  gates  of  the  campus. 
It  is,  next  to  Bridgeport,  the  most  important  manu- 
facturing town  in  Connecticut.  Its  docks  and 
wharves  are  as  busy  as  its  streets  are  broad  and 
green,  and  probably  if  some  one  who  was  as  inter- 
ested in  New  Haven's  business  energy  as  I  was  in 
its  outward  charm  were  to  write  of  the  city,  there 
would  be  an  astonishing  array  of  figures,  stirring 
descriptions  of  first-class  factories,  heartening  rec- 
ords of  great  accomplishings. 

But  Sister  and  I,  turning  our  backs  on  New 
Haven's  sources  of  wealth,  engaged  an  automobile 
and  went  whirling  through  its  parks  and  gardens 
and  shady  avenues  and  up  in  long  loops  to  the  top 
of  East  Rock.  The  hills  backing  the  broad  plain 
on  which  the  city  is  built,  end  at  either  extremity 
with  a  bold  pile  of  rock,  splendidly  precipitous  on 
the  sea  side,  with  fine  trees  clambering  up  wher- 
ever there  is  a  hold.  The  road  up  East  Point, 
which  is  a  public  park,  gives  view  after  view  of 
town  and  harbour,  broad  meadows,  shining,  twist- 
ing rivers,  the  old  Light  House  on  the  Point,  the 
church  spires  and  the  great  spread  of  the  Univer- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

sity  buildings.  No  one  can  say  he  has  "  seen  " 
New  Haven  unless  he  has  climbed  East  Rock 
and  looked  down  upon  her.  The  Rock  is  crowned 
with  a  monument  to  the  sailors  and  soldiers  of  the 
Civil  War. 

"  No  wonder  those  old  Puritan  fathers  were  glad 
to  go  no  farther  when  looking  for  a  home,"  said 
Sister,  as  we  sat  on  top  of  the  Rock  and  let  our  eyes 
range  the  prospect.    Quinnipiac  it  was  called  then, 
the  Indian  name,  that  still  clings  to  the  valley  be- 
hind.   The  town  was  planned  during  the  summer 
that  followed  the  landing,  in  April,   1638,  by  a 
civil  engineer,  who  had  given  up  a  fine  career 
in  England  for  love  of  a  Puritan  maid,  and  fol- 
lowed  her  into   exile.     The   Green,   or  Market 
Square  as  it  was  then  called,  was  laid  out,  with 
the  squares  that  still  exist  round  about  it,  perhaps 
the  first  rectangularly  planned  city  on  the  Con- 
tinent.   Houses  were  built,  some  mere  huts,  others 
almost  mansions.    Of  course  the  first  public  build- 
ing was  the  church.     It  was  used  for  other  pur- 
poses too,  being  a  town-hall,  a  voting  booth,  and  a 
place  where  the  grave  seniors  of  the  new  Colony 
dispensed  the  Puritan  law.    New  Haven  has  in- 
herited a  name  for  extreme  blueness.    The  whip- 
ping post  was  set  up  as  soon  as  the  church,  and 
there  was  an  immense  amount  of  interference  in 
the  personal  concerns  and  home  behaviour  of  the 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

villagers.  The  Reverend  Samuel  Peters,  in  his 
history  of  the  settlement,  quotes  forty-five  "  blue  " 
laws  as  being  enforced,  but  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
doubt  as  to  the  accuracy  of  this  little  history. 

"  Married  people  must  live  together  or  be  im- 
prisoned," was  really  in  force.  "  No  woman  shall 
kiss  her  child  on  the  Sabbath  or  fasting  day  "  is 
not  so  certainly  proved. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  it  had  been  so  enforcedly 
good  in  its  extreme  youth  that  later  it  developed 
into  one  of  the  worst  smuggling  and  illicit  trading 
ports  on  the  coast.  It  carried  on  a  fairly  large 
trade  with  the  West  Indies,  and  built  a  good  many 
ships  at  this  time,  following  1750.  But  most  of 
these  ships  had  a  way  of  stealing  up  the  river  after 
sundown,  mighty  dark  and  mysterious,  and  of  un- 
loading with  a  good  deal  less  noise  and  commotion 
than  is  customary  with  jolly  tars  and  stevedores. 

We  had  been  told  that  it  was  an  excellent  plan 
to  see  the  sunset  from  the  Rock  if  that  were  to  be 
managed,  and  found  the  counsel  wise.  As  the  sun 
drew  down  after  it  the  last  waves  of  rose  and  gold 
and  lavender,  and  the  woods  showed  dark,  lights 
began  to  spring  up  in  the  plain  below,  rows  and 
groups  of  them,  a  fairy  pattern  of  sharp  silver. 
The  water  also  held  its  illuminations,  and  chains  of 
pale  light  marked  the  streets  and  roads. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  boy  and  coming  here  for  four 
-+304-*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

years  of  college  life,'7  Sister  murmured,  as  we  be- 
gan to  whirl  softly  back  to  the  hotel.  "  But  it's 
good-bye  for  us  to-morrow  evening." 

We  found  that  the  ideal  way  to  spend  the  even- 
ing in  New  Haven  was  to  sit  out  on  the  Green. 
There  were  other  things  to  do,  of  course,  and  we 
noted  that  moving  pictures  appeared  to  be  patron- 
ised here  as  elsewhere.  But  it  was  the  Green  for 
us,  and  for  many  more.  The  fragrant  June  night 
had  collected  a  few  early  fireflies,  and  was  tossing 
them  idly  about  over  the  grass,  as  an  Egyptian 
queen  might  play  with  diamonds.  The  chimes 
from  Trinity  sounded,  very  sweet.  Young  lovers 
passed,  arm  linked  close  in  arm,  head  to  head.  A 
buzzing  of  motor  cars  gave  the  emphasis  of  a  city 
to  the  country  vision  of  shadowy  trees  and  open 
grassy  spaces. 

The  story  of  how  New  Haven  got  the  college 
that  is  so  integral  a  part  of  it  has  a  spice  of 
adventure.  It  is  told  in  these  words  by  that  same 
Reverend  Sam.  Peters  whose  remarks  on  the  blue 
laws  Sister  and  I  had  read  in  the  library,  and 
which  I  have  quoted.  His  history  was  written 
in  1781. 

A  slight  introduction  before  we  allow  the  parson 
to  speak.  In  1701  it  was  proposed  to  establish  a 
Collegiate  School  in  Saybrook,  Connecticut,  for 
the  proper  training  of  the  youth  of  the  land.  Har- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

vard  was  already  an  actuality  in  Massachusetts,  but 
it  seemed  bad  policy  to  let  Connecticut  send  all  her 
sons  to  another  Colony  for  their  education. 

A  number  of  Connecticut  parsons  met,  therefore, 
in  Branford,  each  giving  some  of  his  cherished 
books  as  a-  nucleus  for  a  college  library,  making 
forty  volumes  in  all,  the  beginning  of  the  Uni- 
versity library  of  to-day.  At  the  same  time  a  citi- 
zen of  Saybrook,  on  the  mouth  of  the  Connecticut 
River,  donated  to  the  service  of  the  college  a  house 
and  lot.  It  was  a  very  small  house,  but  as  for  the 
first  six  months  the  President  and  a  single  student 
divided  it  between  them  it  was  sufficient.  For 
fifteen  years,  during  which  time  55  students  were 
graduated,  the  future  Yale  remained  at  Saybrook. 
Then  fate  began  to  act. 

"  A  vote,"  .says  our  historian,  "  was  passed  at 
Hartford,  to  remove  the  college  to  Weathersfield; 
and  another  at  Newhaven,  that  it  should  be  re- 
moved to  that  town.  Hartford  prepared  teams, 
boats,  and  a  mob,  and  privately  set  off  for  Saybrook 
and  seized  upon  the  College  apparatus,  library, 
and  students  and  carried  all  to  Weathersfield.  This 
redoubled  the  jealousy  of  the  saints  of  Newhaven, 
who  accordingly  collected  a  mob  sufficient  for  the 
enterprise,  and  set  out  for  Weathersfield.  There 
they  seized  upon  the  students,  library,  etc.,  etc. 
But  on  the  road  to  Newhaven  they  were  overtaken 
-+306*- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

by  the  Hartford  mob,  who,  however,  after  an  un- 
happy battle,  were  obliged  to  retire  with  only  a 
part  of  the  library  and  part  of  the  students." 

The  war  for  the  college  raged  bitterly  for  some 
time,  and  it  was  only  when  Massachusetts  entered 
as  a  mediator  that  peace  arrived.  As  the  parson 
historian  bitterly  says,  she  was,  "  as  ever,"  looking 
out  for  her  own  advantage,  and  desired  that  a  rival 
college  should  be  as  far  from  her  own  as  might 
be.  Weathersfield,  but  a  few  miles  south  of  Hart- 
ford, was  far  too  close  for  comfort.  So  New 
Haven  beat  Hartford  in  this  contest,  at  least. 
Though  the  rage  of  the  Hartford  and  Weathers- 
field  saints  was  such  that  they  sent  all  their  young 
men  to  Harvard  for  many  years. 

Two  years  later  the  college  was  given  the  name 
of  Yale,  after  its  greatest  benefactor,  Elihu  Yale. 

The  picture  of  that  struggling  mob,  with  the 
poor  distraught  students  being  snatched  back  and 
forth,  brother  torn  from  brother,  first  and  second 
volumes  of  important  works  separted  by  the  frantic 
fighters,  who  cared  not  what  sorrow  or  confusion 
they  wrought  so  long  as  the  other  fellow  didn't  get 
the  college,  this  picture  is  so  little  like  the  usual 
conception  of  the  founding  of  a  seat  of  learning 
that  it  has  a  special  appeal.  Possibly  the  well- 
known  pugnacious  spirit  of  the  University  had  its 
birth  at  the  same  moment. 

'-*•  307  •*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

Phelps  Hall  is  the  gate  by  which  you  enter  the 
college  campus  from  the  Green.  It  is  a  square 
tower,  heavy  and  solid,  built  over  an  archway,  very 
deep  and  finely  curved,  looking  through  which  you 
see  iron  gates  and  beyond  the  greenery  of  the 
campus.  Gone  are  most  of  the  fine  elms  that  used 
to  stand  here,  the  elm  beetle  and  other  causes  work- 
ing against  them.  At  one  time  the  trees  within 
the  college  walls  were  as  fine  as  those  outside. 
Now  they  are  young  and  small  in  comparison.  But 
the  great  quandrangle  is  a  magnificent  and  effec- 
tive sight.  Yale  has  an  old  and  grave  look,  for 
all  that  so  many  of  her  buildings  are  comparatively 
new.  The  Old  Brick  Row  has  gone,  leaving  Con- 
necticut Hall  to  the  left,  built  in  1750,  Old 
South  as  it  used  to  be  called,  as  the  oldest  portion 
of  the  University.  This  has  been  restored  to  its 
original  pure  Colonial  style,  from  which  it  had 
lapsed. 

Vanderbilt  Hall  lies  just  behind,  and  we  were 
told  that  it  was  the  best  college  dormitory  any- 
where on  earth.  On  one  side  the  ivy-covered  Art 
School,  on  the  other  handsome  Osborne  Hall.  Op- 
posite were  the  Library,  Dwight  Hall,  and 
Alumni  Hall.  Beyond  these  High  Street,  and  be- 
yond that  other  buildings,  Peabody  Hall  Museum 
among  them.  Behind  us,  as  we  stood  after  enter- 
ing through  Phelps,  one  building  adjoined  another, 

-+ 308-1- 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

making  a  great  parapet  between  the  college  and 
the  town. 

There  is  a  superb  quality  to  a  fine  University 
that  no  other  group  of  buildings  can  ever  equal. 
Dedicated  to  the  mind  of  man,  they  touch  the 
imagination  with  particular  force.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain compactness  about  Yale  that  heightens  the  ef- 
fect. Wherever  we  looked,  one  splendid  building 
belonging  to  the  college  touched  or  almost  touched 
another.  Behind  these  lay  more,  so  that  we  seemed 
to  be  in  a  town  given  up  to  learning  and  to  beauty. 

We  walked  its  streets  with  joy,  passing  through 
the  exquisite  Whitman  Gate,  taking  turns  that  gave 
unexpected  and  thrillingly  lovely  vistas,  watching 
the  hurrying  students  and  the  more  stately  prog- 
ress of  a  professor  as  they  went  about  their  busi- 
ness. The  shadows  of  trees  fell  on  stone  walls  and 
grassy  places,  towers  rose,  arched  and  battlemented 
gates  opened  in  the  walls  or  accentuated  the 
strength  of  the  iron  fence. 

We  saw  many  of  the  fraternity  houses,  and 
famous  Skull  and  Bones;  we  passed  the  Gym  and 
swung  around  by  White  Hall  and  the  Lyceum, 
where  the  college  plays  are  given.  It  was  all  a 
long  enchantment,  as  it  should  be. 

"  Don't  let's  miss  the  Yale  Bowl,"  Sister  urged. 

We  didn't,  in  its  empty  serenity.  But  the  time 
to  see  that  is  when  the  football  battles  are  on,  every 
-*•  309-*- 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

tier  a  solid  row  of  excited  humanity  aflutter  with 
flags,  the  air  shaken  by  yells  and  cheers,  the  con- 
testing teams  swaying  below  there.  Yet,  in  its 
calmness,  it  gained  beauty. 

"  Being  a  college  boy  has  many  desirable 
aspects,"  we  decided,  as  we  came  out  on  the  Green 
again.  "  But  being  a  professor,  and  settling  down 
here  for  keeps " 

"  Incomparably  more  delightful  than  the  job  of 
being  President,"  was  our  conclusion,  as  we  re- 
turned to  the  Taft  Hotel. 

We  still  had  a  perfectly  good  afternoon,  and 
planned  to  use  it  in  seeing  Donald  G.  Mitchell's 
old  place,  the  Edgewood  Farm,  two  miles  to  the 
west  of  the  city,  where  Ik  Marvel  had  lived  more 
than  fifty  years,  devoted  to  the  enduring  pleasures 
of  gardening  and  authorship.  "  My  Farm  at  Edge- 
wood  "  is  a  book  that  can  be  reread  just  about  as 
often  as  haymaking  comes  round,  while  the  whim- 
sical sentiments  of  "  Dream  Life  "  and  "  Reveries 
of  a  Bachelor  "  lose  nothing  of  their  fresh  appeal 
as  the  years  pile  up  on  them. 

We  asked  permission  to  wander  about  the 
grounds,  which  are  beautifully  laid  out.  Mitchell 
was  an  artist  with  trees  and  shrubs,  curving  paths 
and  bosky  slopes,  quite  as  much  as  with  words. 
His  writing,  indeed,  was  simply  an  avocation.  It 
was  agriculture  and  gardening  that  were  the 


OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

passion  and  the  labour  of  his  life.  The  comfort- 
able but  rather  fussy  house  was  full  of  large  win- 
dows that  looked  out  on  every  side.  Little  did 
Ik  Marvel  care  as  to  the  architecture  of  the  house 
that  sheltered  him,  so  long  as  he  might  be  per- 
mitted to  see  every  change  in  the  seasons,  to  study 
the  coming  and  going  of  summer  and  winter,  from 
those  broad  verandas  and  those  commanding  win- 
dows, what  time  the  severity  of  the  weather  kept 
him  from  going  out. 

Oddly  enough,  Mitchell  appears  to  be  the  only 
distinctively  literary  man  who  has  made  New 
Haven  his  home.  And  he  was  more  amateur  than 
professional. 

We  drove  back  to  the  station,  where  our  bags 
were  waiting  to  be  checked  to  New  York.  We 
dreaded  them  no  longer.  Even  here,  in  the  large 
purlieus  of  the  Union  Station,  they  held  no  peril, 
for  porters  were  to  be  had  without  the  asking. 

We  settled  ourselves  comfortably,  but  sadly,  for 
the  short  return  trip.  Our  little  holiday  was  over. 

"  It  will  all  seem  like  a  dream  to-morrow,"  I 
said.  "  New  York  grabs  you  again  so  quickly, 
swamps  you,  stifles  anything  but  itself  out  of  you. 
The  lilacs  over  the  rocks  above  the  sea,  the  mur- 
muring pines,  the  little,  twisted,  up  and  down 
streets,  the  old,  old  houses,  the  distant  prospects, 
the  bells  of  Sunday  morning,  the  drying  fish,  the 


OLD  SEAPORT  TOWNS 

lobster  boats  and  ancient  wharves,  all  that  was  yes- 
terday and  is  to-day,  all  will  seem  the  insubstan- 
tial fabric  of  a  dream." 

"  Cease  those  complaints,"  Sister  retorted.  "  It 
doesn't  do  any  harm  to  have  things  seem  a  dream, 
quite  the  contrary.  And  we'll  never  forget  our 
New  England  spring,  not  a  jot  of  it.  What's  more, 
you  know,  we're  going  back." 

I  brightened. 

"Of  course  we  are!    That's  settled." 

And  the  train  rolled  swiftly  onward  to  the  im- 
mensities of  New  York  from  the  immensities  of 
rock-bound  coast  and  sea  and  sky.  Nor  did  any 
brakeman  or  conductor  come  through,  shouting 
that  we  must  move  out  of  the  car  we  were  in  and 
into  some  other  if  we  wished  to  get  to  the  metropo- 
lis. There  are  some  things  in  which  New  York 
does  not  insist  that  you  shall  step  lively. 

The  train,  as  though  definitely  closing  our  coast 
town  journey,  swung  away  from  the  seaboard 
far  enough  to  close  the  view.  Having  noth- 
ing better  to  do,  we  went  forward  to  the  dining 
car. 


312 


